Chapter 47
CALLUM
Aberystwyth - Paper Aeroplanes
He had been extremely grateful that there were only twenty bookstores in town, and that Alejandra had decided to restrain herself to just one book per store.
They had lunch there, and as he drove down the exit off the highway to Aberystwyth, the familiar pang of anxiety—and homesickness—hit him like a tide.
Aberystwyth had a way of lingering in your bones. Callum never quite shook it, no matter how far life took him. From London to Boston, from swimming pools to sterile boardrooms. Aber was always there, tucked between sea and mountain like a secret you both wanted to keep and shout about.
It was a university town on the west coast of Wales, where the wind carried salt from Cardigan Bay straight through your lungs.
The kind of place where seagulls woke you before your alarm, and the sea was never more than a few minutes' walk away.
Rows of colorful Victorian houses lined the promenade, each one slightly peeling, as if weathered by time and sea spray.
In summer, it was full of locals mixing with tourists, ice cream shops and chip vans open late into the evening.
In winter, the wind turned sharp and unforgiving, sweeping in off the water with enough force to nearly knock you sideways.
But Callum had loved both seasons—the sun-drenched strolls along the seafront, and the rainy ones too, hands in pockets, eyes on the horizon.
His taid’s house sat just uphill from the town center, close to the university but still tucked away.
If you leaned far enough out the upstairs window, you could see the sea.
The scent of peat fires still clung to the old stone walls.
On cold nights, they used to huddle in the living room, listening to Welsh legends on the radio or arguing over rugby and politics in two languages.
There was a bookstore on Great Darkgate Street he used to get lost in for hours, and he couldn’t wait to bring Alejandra there.
A pub off North Parade where his taid had bought him his first pint, and where he'd been drunk more than once. A cliff railway that carried tourists up Constitution Hill, but to Callum, it had always been just part of the backdrop of home. Familiar. Steady. The kind of place that made the world move slower, and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
And now, he was sharing this place with Alejandra.
She’d see the slate roofs, the winding coastal road, the ancient ruins of the castle where he’d kissed his first girl, and the beach where he’d tried—and failed—to stand on a surfboard at eleven.
He wasn’t sure how she’d take it, this sleepy town that had raised him, but he hoped—selfishly—that it would grow on her.
They arrived just in time for sunset, and as the light dipped behind the ocean, Alejandra looked out at it with a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite place.
There was longing, guilt, anxiety. As he parked in front of his childhood home—a pastel blue house his mother insisted on repainting the same color every year because it reminded her of him—he looked over and saw her quietly taking it all in.
“It’s like in the movies,” Alejandra said, from the other side of the car, eyes fixed on the view.
“Which movies?” he asked, curious.
“I don’t know… like The Holiday and those English countryside things.” She grinned. “It doesn’t look even a little bit like Spain, which is good. Maybe it’ll help.”
“Callum!” his mam called from the front door, arms wide open, her smile already glowing. She was always happiest when she saw him. He motioned to Alejandra to follow him and walked into her embrace.
She was small, barely 5 feet, with black hair now streaked with silver and cut short. Her dark brown eyes scanned him from head to toe with maternal precision. He must have taken after his unknown father, but he always liked to think he got his height and blue eyes from his taid.
“You cut your hair again,” she scolded, narrowing her eyes. “I love your waves.”
“I gotta agree,” Alejandra chimed in playfully from behind him.
His mam turned to take her in. Alejandra stepped forward, offering a bouquet of flowers and a bag with two books. He’d told her his mother loved Jane Austen, and despite his protests that a gift wasn’t necessary, her beaming face now said it had been worth it.
“You must be Alejandra,” his mother stated, butchering the name. She didn’t seem to mind, she smiled and leaned in to hug her.
“This is for you.” She handed over the gifts.
“You didn’t have to! Oh my god—Jane Austen. I love her,” his mam lit up.
“Me too.” Alejandra smiled back.
“You can call me Eira,” she offered, then looked at him with raised brows. “You could’ve told me she was this gorgeous.”
Alejandra grinned. “How could you forget?”
Callum chuckled. “I’ll grab the bags. You two go inside.”
“Taid’s down at the pub under Rhiannon’s supervision,” Eira said. “Why don’t you go check on him while I finish dinner and get to know Alejandra?”
“You sure?” he looked between them. Alejandra nodded.
“Go. Find your taid,” she said, shooing him away with a smile. He kissed her softly, catching a flush in her cheeks before heading down the familiar winding road to the pub.
The scent hit him before the door even opened—beer, meat, and years of laughter baked into the wood and stone. The clinking of glasses sounded like a lullaby.
There weren’t many patrons at this hour. Behind the counter, Rhiannon—his childhood friend—was cleaning pint glasses, keeping an eye on the elderly man slouched at a nearby stool, blankly facing the television.
His taid looked older. Smaller. Glassy eyed. Watching, but not really seeing.
Rhiannon spotted him and grinned. “I can’t believe who just stepped into my pub. Callum Jeremy Evans!”
Heads turned. He ignored them as she came around the counter and hugged him tight. She’d grown into a strong woman—broad shoulders, shoulder-length blonde hair, fair skin, and sharp brown eyes that still read him too well.
“I missed you, dude.”
“I missed you too.” He squeezed her.
“What brings you back?”
“Calan Mai,” he said quietly, then glanced at his taid. “And him.”
Rhiannon’s smile softened. “We’ve all been keeping an eye on him.”
“And I’ll always be grateful for that.”
“How’s life in London?”
“Good. Very good.” Now it sounded true. Because he had some time off work and he was there with— “I came here with a… friend.”
Her look was too knowing. “A friend? You mean a girlfriend?”
He sighed. “We haven’t spoken about that yet.” Which sounded stupid because she already had his heart in her hands since the first moment he had met those beautiful green eyes. “Did you already talk to my mam?”
“Of course. She was excited and nervous. She was scared after Vanessa that you’d never find someone again.”
“Great,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Love the faith.”
“I looked her up,” Rhiannon said casually. “Pro surfer, huh? She’s cool. Just not who I expected.”
Callum frowned. “And who did you expect?”
“Well, you dated Vanessa. They’re like night and day.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Vanessa was composed, conventional.
Alejandra was all waves and fire. Vanessa was a beige suit.
Alejandra was a barefoot thunderstorm. He couldn’t have fallen in love with two more different people, but the Callum who had loved Vanessa wasn’t the same one who was inevitably falling in love with Alejandra.
With Vanessa, they met at Harvard, when he was still a very inexperienced twenty-something from Wales with dreams not yet crashed by life.
With Alejandra, maybe he needed unpredictability, maybe he needed the chaos her life was at the moment.
Maybe it was destiny they needed to navigate this period together, to find a meaning.
Or maybe the meaning was just being together.
“She’s in town, by the way,” Rhiannon added, snapping him back to reality.
“Who?”
“Vanessa.” She frowned. Yeah, stupid question. “With that Garramond guy.”
He grimaced. “Is that real?”
“Saw him grab her ass with my own two eyes.”
His scowl deepened. “Maybe that’s what she needs now.”
“Political connections? For sure.” Rhiannon clicked her tongue, clearly not agreeing with her decisions.
He looked at his grandfather again. He was more important than Vanessa’s love life. “I’ll check on him. I’ll bring Alejandra by later tonight. How’s that?”
“Can’t wait to meet my first Olympic medalist.” She winked, heading back behind the bar.
Callum approached his taid, nerves buzzing. He placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. It took a long moment for him to turn and look at Callum. The blue eyes—so much like his—were distant, unfocused.
“Grant.”
His heart sank.
“I’m not Grant, taid. It’s me, Callum. Your grandson.”
The older man blinked. Looked again. Took him in slowly, like trying to find a memory underwater. And then, finally, something shifted. A flicker of recognition. Maybe.
“Sure, Callum. Look at you, how tall you are. Come here,” he said, arms opening.
Callum leaned into the hug, breathing him in. And for just a second, it felt like home again, even if the memories were fading fast.