Chapter 23
Caleb
The moment she answers the phone, her posture tightens. Her shoulders curl in as if the weight of the voice on the other end pulls her down. She’s biting her lip so hard it turns white as she listens to the person on the other end of the call speak.
It’s hard to keep my distance and focus on making our coffees, anxiety forming a pit in my stomach. What’s going on here?
From the corner of my eye, I watch her stare out of the window as if the gazebo in the town square has all the answers. Her grim expression reflects in the glass.
Slowly, she lowers her arm when the call ends, eyes staring into nothingness outside with a blank expression.
I know that look. That hollowness, that empty stare. It has barely been three days since Emilia came to the café, and I spent an entire evening in the same state.
I imagined what it could have been like if my dad had invited her over when she called. What I missed out on because he never told me she tried to get in touch. What I’ve been missing out on.
A family. A sister.
Then the questions. Would I have been a good brother? Could I be now?
Can I overcome the pain and allow my mother and sister into my life?
The evening didn’t give me any answers. Neither did the book on postpartum depression.
It might help me understand why she left, but that doesn’t change the fact that she hurt me.
She caused so much pain for me. And my dad.
No matter how distanced he became, he didn’t deserve being left without a word either.
Lauren snakes her arms around herself. Fuck it. The coffees can wait.
“Is everything okay?” I walk over to her. My heart beats into my throat, hands clammy, an anxious coldness ripples through my chest as I reach for her hand. “What’s going on? Is it an emergency?”
“Everything is okay,” she mumbles, softly shaking her head, eyes still staring into nothingness. “No emergency. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah, because that has about the same effect as telling a pissed-off person to calm down.” I put my hands on her slim shoulders and carefully turn her to me, trying to catch her eyes with mine. “Talk to me, Lauren.”
“It’s nothing.”
She rubs her palm over her face and lets out a deep sigh, finally snapping back to me.
“Oh,” I say, letting go of her and taking a step back, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “I thought we were past the point of lying to each other.” She gulps, eyes darting anywhere but to me.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s okay.” I shrug, sharp disappointment making my stomach drop, and turn around to walk back to the kitchen. “Then say so. Don’t lie to me, Lauren.”
“It wasn’t a lie,” she insists softly, following me and leaning against my kitchen island.
“Don’t ‘selective truth’ me either.” I place the coffee mug in front of her. “Talking helps. So does rage baking. Make your pick.”
And then I wait.
Her eyebrows scrunch up as she puts her hands around the mug, slowly turning it in circles as emotions are fighting a war in her head. Finally, she lets out a deep sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose.
“It’s just… my family. My dad, to be precise.” She lets go of her mug to rub the back of her neck. “I mean, he’s my dad and I love him, but whenever we talk, it leads to dumb thoughts.”
“Don’t call your thoughts dumb,” I scold her.
She’s twisting a strand of her hair around her finger, playing with it as she glances at me.
“But they are dumb thoughts.” When her eyes meet mine again, they’re burning with anger. “And I know they’re dumb, but I can’t stop thinking them. And then I feel stupid for obsessing over them, all while knowing in my heart they’re bullshit.”
“Your thoughts aren’t dumb.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she says coldly and rolls her eyes. “I think a lot of thoughts, Caleb. It’s okay that some of them are dumb.”
“Lauren, look at me.” I wait until her eyes shift to me. “Try me.”
“Caleb…” She narrows her eyes at me.
“Tell me,” I encourage her gently, then step closer until she needs to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. I hold her gaze, watching her fight an inner battle, rage against vulnerability, until her shoulders sag and she averts her eyes.
“Okay,” Lauren whispers and lets out a shaky breath. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, trying to find the right words. But I’m patient. And finally, she talks.
“My family might not be as bad as yours or Nic’s, but they’re their own very special kind of messed up,” she explains, eyes staring straight ahead at my chest.
“To them, I’m invisible. Which might come to you as a surprise considering I barely shut up, ever.” An unamused laugh falls from her lips.
“My mom is extremely traditional. In her mind, a woman simply must marry and stay at home with her children. She doesn’t understand why I chose to work and stay single, it’s unfathomable to her.
“A lot of my cousins have families now and chose to become stay at home moms. If that’s their idea of happiness, I’m glad for them.
But it’s not mine.” She clears her throat.
“Whenever I see my mom, her first question is if I’ve finally gotten myself a boyfriend.
The second one is if I’ll bless her with grandchildren soon.
” She presses her lips together and lets out a deep, measured breath.
“And that’s the only thing she’ll ask about.
Not about my movies, or press tours, or if I’m doing okay.
She’ll just jump right into a disappointed tirade about not getting any younger that I can recite by heart now.
Then she’ll sing my cousin’s praises for raising three kids while her husband pulls hundred-hour-work-weeks and is never at home.
” Her eyes find mine. “No offence to them, to each their own and all that, but my mother doesn’t get it into her head that that kind of life sounds like my own personal hell.
She just keeps rambling about having a family being so fulfilling.
Then she’ll go into painstaking detail of my mistakes, and hey, have I gained weight?
Why would I choose to wear that dress? It’s a never-ending list of things I need to change so a man would want to marry and impregnate me. ” She rolls her eyes.
My heart aches for her. I’m not the most pop-cultured guy, yet even I know that her work is nothing short of incredible. One Google search will reveal that.
How can a mother not realize their child is so much more than their ability to reproduce?
“I didn’t even get an invitation to Thanksgiving at their place this year. Instead, they hosted my cousin and her family because her parents couldn’t and,”—she lifts her hands for air quotes— “‘we don’t have enough space, and it’s more important for the children to have this experience.’”
“What the fuck?” Why did she hide that from us? Is that what she saw on her phone on Thanksgiving that ruined her mood?
Obviously, I want nothing to do with my sperm donor, but if it turned out he went ahead and replaced me, I would be hurting too. I can’t imagine how much that must sting.
“That’s what I said!” She exclaims, and her eyes find mine, a fire burning in them. “Fine for me, I loved spending Thanksgiving with you guys, and I’m not exactly jumping at the chance to get interrogated by my mother, but it’s the principle of it.”
Her voice breaks, anger and annoyance mixed with pain, even though she tries to conceal it.
“My dad never got involved. He called himself the ‘neutral party,’ but by staying out of it and letting my mother tear into me at any chance, he wasn’t being neutral at all.” She clenches her jaw.
“I limited contact with them once I moved here, yet they still manage to get under my skin. It’s annoying and frustrating and sometimes…” She stops herself and takes a deep breath.
My fingers itch with the need to reach for her.
“I wonder if it’s somehow my fault that they don’t like me.” She shrugs. “Maybe there is no space in this world where I truly belong, if not even my family loves me unconditionally. Maybe there was a mistake in my creation, and I miss the gene that makes me lovable. What if I- “
Before her breaths can pick up further and she talks herself into a panic, I lift my hand to run my fingers through her hair, down to the back of her head. I lean in and, before I realize what I'm doing, interrupt her last words with a kiss.
A soft gasp catches in her throat. I freeze.
This certainly wasn’t planned.
I look at her, trying to gauge her reaction. For a moment, her eyes widen in surprise, her entire body tensing, fingers digging into my shirt. Then her eyes flutter closed and she relaxes in my arms.
She lets go of my shirt and snakes her arms around my neck, pulling off my beanie and flinging it away, so her fingers can weave through my hair as I pull her closer by the small of her back.
This is not how I imagined our first kiss would go.
I never had any doubt it would happen. Though I was sure it would be a little more… romantic. Probably under one of the mistletoes she hung up in my café. That there would be a beacon of light beaming on us, angel choirs breaking into a ‘hallelujah’.
But this is quite profound without any of that.
It’s like us. After all, our ‘firsts’ have been messy from the beginning.
Kissing her is like coming home. The way she parts her lips for me, how she tastes of coffee with a hint of that gingerbread syrup. It’s so her. Sweet. Addictive.
Everything else fades. There’s only her and a warmth sweeping through me quicker than a gasoline-induced fire.
When she pulls away, I rest my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling in the narrow space between our faces. One of my arms is around her, the other hand cradling her face.
“You were right,” I mumble, and her eyes flutter open to reveal her confused eyes.
“I usually am, but about what in particular?” She whispers, her finger drawing soft circles on my scalp, twisting a strand of my hair around it.
“Those are dumb thoughts,” I whisper very seriously.
She lets out a shaky laugh. “I told you so.”