Twenty-Five
twenty-five
THRIFT SHOP - MACKLEMORE & RYAN LEWIS FEAT. WANZ
CALLIE - APRIL 17, 2014
T he drive down to New Orleans stretches on forever, fourteen hours in the van with two kids under two-years-old. No amount of playlists or snacks can make that feel short. We leave Hawkridge late in the evening, after Owen got off work and took a shower. I offer to drive the first leg of the trip so he can get some sleep, but he shakes his head like he’s already made a decision on how the drive is going to go.
“You know I love to drive,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat and adjusting the mirrors. I guess that means there’s no room for debate. “I’m definitely not letting you stress out about the semis the whole way. Just sit back, relax, and let me handle it.”
The way he says it makes me feel safe, like he’s thought of everything before I even have the chance to stress about it.
“You’ve been working all day,” I press, leaning against the passenger door as I watch him settle in, clicking his seatbelt. “You’ll be tired by the time we hit the halfway mark.”
“I’m fine,” he says, his voice calm as his hand brushes mine on the console. He leans over to kiss my forehead. “Trust me, I’ve got this. If I need you to drive at some point, I’ll let you know, I swear. I would never do anything to put my favorite girls in danger.”
That gets me, the way he always includes the girls in moments like this, like they are a part of him now too. I suppose they are. I manage a small smile, leaning back into my seat as he starts the engine. “Okay, but if you feel too tired, you promise to pull over?”
He looks at me and holds out his pinky finger. “Promise,” he says as I loop my pinky with his. “Now, sit back and enjoy the ride.”
Ruby falls asleep almost immediately, her little hands tucked under her chin in her car seat, while Sara hums to herself in the back, flipping through a small stack of books I packed for her. The hum of the engine is steady, leaving me to watch the headlights cut through the dark, winding highway.
Owen wasn’t exaggerating when he said he loves to drive. There’s something almost meditative about the way his hands stay relaxed on the wheel, his gaze focused. Every now and then, I catch him glancing in the rearview mirror, checking on the girls or maybe just soaking in the fact that this is his life now. It makes my heart ache in the best way.
The playlist I queued up before we left shifts from soft rock to something more upbeat, and I find myself singing quietly along to the lyrics. I don’t have a great voice—no one in my family does—but it’s one of those things I’ve always done without thinking.
Owen doesn’t sing. He never does. Even now, when I see the corner of his mouth twitch at one of my off-key notes, he stays silent, though his fingers tap out a rhythm on the steering wheel.
“You know you can join in,” I tease, glancing over at him.
He snorts, shaking his head. “Not happening.”
“Come on. I’m pretty sure Sara isn’t even paying attention,” I say, motioning toward the back where Sara is busy pointing out random shapes in the darkness outside her window.
“That’s a hard pass,” he replies, his grin widening. “You’re doing fine on your own.”
I roll my eyes but keep singing, my voice filling the van. The girls finally settle into a deep sleep, and the hum of the engine is the only sound filling the space between us. My thoughts drift back to Barrett.
“I wish Barrett could’ve come,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is soft, but it’s enough to pull Owen’s attention from the road.
“Me too,” he says after a beat, his tone quiet. His fingers flex slightly on the wheel. “It doesn’t feel right without him, does it?”
I shake my head, staring at the dark silhouettes of trees rushing past. “No. I know Sabrina wants him there for the wedding, and I get it—I do—but I miss him.”
Owen’s hand reaches across the console, finding mine. His thumb brushes over my knuckles. The familiar warmth of his presence settles in my chest.
“We’ll bring him next time,” he says. “Just the four of us. Maybe even a weeklong trip. He’d love it.”
That thought makes me smile. “Yeah, he would.”
“Then it’s settled,” he says, his tone resolute, like he’s made a promise he intends to keep.
The hours roll on, and Owen keeps the energy up, pointing out quirky billboards advertising giant roadside attractions or strange tourist traps. He even humors Sara’s insistence that Ally the stuffed alligator, her new road trip buddy, is magic and can make the van go faster.
It’s not until we pull into a gas station around midnight that I realize how much time has passed. Owen still looks as focused and at ease as he did when we left Hawkridge. He grabs snacks from the convenience store and finds a tiny keychain that Sara can add to her growing collection.
The road is long, but Owen makes it feel like an adventure. By the time we finally pull into my dad’s driveway in the early morning hours, I’m half-asleep, the girls are restless but happy, and Owen looks like he could keep going for another fourteen hours if he had to. My stepmother Shelly greets us at the door, her smile bright and warm. “You made it!” she says, holding the door open as Sara bolts out of the van toward her. “I was starting to worry.”
“Just a long drive,” I say, stepping out of the van and stretching, my legs stiff from sitting so long in one spot. “I’m tempted to lay down for a nap, but I don’t want to sleep the day away and mess up our sleep schedules. I’d rather just grab a Red Bull and ride it out.”
As I speak, the front door swings open, and Shelly steps outside, her face lighting up the moment she sees us. Her gaze shifts to Owen, and I suddenly realize this is the first time they’re meeting in person.
“You must be Owen!” she says warmly, stepping forward with open arms. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Owen shifts Ruby’s car seat from the van, adjusting the blanket around her before offering Shelly a polite smile. “All good things, I hope.”
“Only the best,” she assures him, giving his arm a quick squeeze before gesturing toward the house. “Come inside, both of you. You must be exhausted after that long drive.”
Owen carries Ruby carefully as we step inside, the familiar scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon wrapping around us like a hug.
“Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters,” Shelly says, already moving toward the kitchen. “Your dad’s flight was delayed. He won’t be home until this afternoon, but you’ve got time to settle in.”
I feel a pang of disappointment. It’s been months since I’ve seen Dad, and I was looking forward to having him meet Owen right away. Still, I nod, shaking it off.
“You two should take a walk or do some shopping or something,” Shelly suggests, already reaching for Sara’s hand. “Stretch your legs after being in the car for so long. I’ll keep an eye on the girls for you.”
I hesitate, glancing back at Ruby in her car seat. She stirs but doesn’t wake, her tiny fingers curling into a loose fist. “Thanks, Shelly,” I say after a moment, “but I think I’ll take Ruby with me. I’m breastfeeding, and I didn’t bring my pump.”
Shelly gives me a knowing smile, a look that makes me feel understood without explanation. “Of course, sweetie. Go have some time together. Sara and I will have plenty of fun here, won’t we?”
I glance at Sara, who is already at the coffee table, rummaging through a drawer of crayons and markers. She doesn’t even look up, waving me off like I’m a minor inconvenience to her new artistic plans.
I smile, letting myself relax a little. “She’s going to love being here,” I say softly, more to myself than to Shelly.
Shelly nods, her voice warm as she watches Sara settle in. “You all will. Now go on. Take a breather.”
The bell above the thrift shop door jingles as we step inside. The scent of aged books and worn leather invade my senses, making me feel nostalgic even though I’ve never been here before. The shop is dimly lit, the warm glow of string lights weave through old furniture and racks of mismatched clothing.
“This place is perfect,” I say, tugging on Owen’s hand. He grins, his other hand adjusting Ruby’s sling where she’s snoozing against his chest. Her little face peeks out, peaceful and unbothered by her surroundings. It feels like a proper date, even with little Ruby tagging along.
Owen’s eyes light up as he scans the room, making a beeline for a rack of old t-shirts. It’s his usual routine whenever we visit a place like this. He starts flipping through the shirts, reading aloud the slogans or logos: a local high school team here, someone’s little league coaching shirt there. It’s like watching him on a treasure hunt. His growing collection of random shirts has become one of my favorite quirks about him, not just because they’re fun, but because they spark the best conversations. Strangers are always stopping us to ask about the shirt he’s wearing, whether it’s from a town they recognize or a team they used to coach. Sometimes, I’ll borrow one to wear at Brooked & Brewed, and without fail, customers ask if I’m related to someone on the team whose name is slapped across my back. It’s silly, but it’s one of those little things that feels uniquely us .
“Can’t have too much of a good thing,” he says, winking. It’s endearing to see him invested in something as mundane as thrift shopping. He’s not just looking for clothes but for stories, pieces of someone else’s life to add to his own.
I wander over to a shelf lined with vintage cameras with lenses clouded with dust. One in particular catches my eye. It’s an old Polaroid with a faded rainbow stripe across the front.
“Owen,” I call, holding it up. “What do you think? Should we start documenting our adventures to show pictures to the kids someday?”
He looks up from the rack, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “Absolutely. We’ll be the coolest parents ever.”
“Maybe one day, we will look back on this and think we are quirky and cute rather than just cheap,” I tease while I fiddle with the camera only to discover it’s missing film.
“Quirky and cute sounds about right,” he says, closing the distance between us. He shifts Ruby slightly in her sling and takes the camera from my hands to examine it. “What do you think? Decoration or project?”
“Project,” I say without hesitation. “I’ll find the film somewhere. You’ll just have to wear this Jazz Fest 1981 shirt while we take pictures to complete the aesthetic.”
“I hear 1981 was a good year,” he replies with a laugh.
I tuck the Polaroid under my arm and follow him to the counter, where he adds the Jazz Fest shirt to our pile of treasures. As we check out, Ruby stirs, her tiny fist poking out of the sling, but she doesn’t wake. Owen glances down at her, his face softening when he looks at her.
It’s moments like this that make me wonder, not for the first time, what it would have been like if Ruby were his biological child. I know it doesn’t make a difference to him, but the thought still lingers. I imagine what our future might look like. Will he actually want to marry me someday? Have kids together? We’ve talked about marriage before, in passing, but I don’t know how sincerely he means it when he says he’d be open to getting married again someday—especially since we both swore we’d never do it again. It feels almost too good to believe, like I’ll wake up one day and realize this has all been some perfect dream. We already share three children between us, but I’m not sure if the idea of adding more intrigues or terrifies him.
I should probably ask him about it eventually.
He’s meeting my dad today, and I can see the pressure he’s putting on himself about it. It’s there in the way his shoulders tighten whenever we talk about dinner, in the slight falter of his smile when he thinks I’m not watching.
We’ve been through so much in the short time we’ve been together, and it hasn’t even been six months. The intrusive thought creeps in: What if someday he realizes this isn’t what he truly wants? What if, by then, my girls have grown so attached to him that it shatters not just my heart, but theirs too? The possibility lingers in the back of my mind, making every moment precious and fragile.
“Ready to go, babe?” he asks, his voice pulling me from the spiral of my thoughts.
I nod, forcing a smile as we step out into the lively streets of New Orleans. Music drifts from a nearby street performer, the notes vibrant and alive, and the smell of fresh beignets fills the air. Owen swings the bag of thrift shop treasures playfully as we walk, the corner of the Jazz Fest shirt sticking out obnoxiously bright against the muted tones of the old city.
I let myself lean into him, tucking the camera under my arm, and decide to let the rest of the day be simple. Owen might be nervous, but I was too when I met his family. He will be himself and charm my dad and everything will be perfect.
We pull into the driveway after our thrift shop detour and Sara’s little face appears in the front window, her nose pressed so close to the glass that her breath fogs it up. The moment she spots us, she squeals and disappears from view. A second later, the front door swings open.
“She’s been waiting for you,” Shelly says with a laugh, holding the door open as Sara barrels toward us.
“Mommy!” Sara cries, launching herself at me the moment I step out of the car. I scoop her up, and she immediately starts chattering about everything she and Grandma Shelly did while we were gone.
Owen carefully lifts Ruby’s car seat from the back, cradling it in one arm as he follows me to the door. Ruby stirs, stretching her tiny arms, but she settles again quickly, her head tilted just so in the snug little seat.
“You two have a good time?” Shelly asks as she holds the door open wider.
“We did,” I reply, smiling as I shift Sara onto my hip. “Found some treasures, too.”
Shelly’s eyes flick to the Polaroid camera tucked under my arm, and she raises an eyebrow. “That looks fun.”
“Just a little project,” I say with a shrug, setting the camera on the coffee table as we step inside.
Sara wiggles out of my arms, making a beeline for Owen. She tugs on his pant leg until he sets Ruby’s car seat down carefully and kneels to her level. She throws her arms around his neck, her face lighting up as she tells him about the picture she colored for Grandpa.
“She really missed you,” Shelly says, her voice warm with approval as she watches the scene unfold.
Before I can respond, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway makes my heart skip a beat. My stomach twists as I glance at Owen, his expression tightening just enough to betray the nerves I know he’s been trying to hide all day.
“That must be your dad,” Shelly says, heading for the door.
Owen straightens, adjusting Ruby’s car seat in one hand as his other brushes against mine. I reach out instinctively, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” I murmur, leaning closer. “It’s going to be fine.”
He nods, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. It surprises me, Owen is usually the most confident person in the room. Whether it’s at work, with family, or handling the chaos of raising three kids, he rarely falters. With my dad just steps away, a different side of him is showing.
Is it because he thinks Dad won’t approve? Or is it something more? I know this is a big moment for us, for him, but I didn’t expect him to be this on edge. It tugs at my heart even as my own nerves quietly simmer beneath the surface.
The door swings open, and my dad steps inside, his presence commanding as always. His sharp eyes sweep over the room, landing first on me, then on Owen.
“Callie,” he says, his voice gruff but warm as he steps forward to pull me into a quick hug. “Good to see you, sweetheart.”
“You too, Dad,” I reply, squeezing him back.
When we pull apart, Dad’s attention shifts to Owen, his expression unreadable. I hold my breath, trying not to let my own nerves show. My dad has always been good at reading people, and part of me worries that he’ll see the tension in Owen and misinterpret it.
“Dad, this is Owen,” I say, my voice steady. “And this is Ruby.”
Owen steps forward with his hand extended. “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” he says, balancing Ruby’s car seat with practiced ease.
Dad’s eyes shift between Owen and Ruby. His expression softens as he grips Owen’s hand firmly. “It’s nice to meet you too, Owen. Callie’s told me a lot about you.” His gaze flickers briefly to me, warm but curious, before returning to Owen. “And Shelly mentioned you drove the whole way down so Callie didn’t have to worry.”
“Yes, sir,” Owen replies. “It wasn’t a problem at all.”
Dad nods, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Good man. That’s exactly what I like to hear.”
The handshake lingers just a second too long for my comfort. I watch as Owen straightens, his shoulders squaring as he meets Dad’s gaze evenly. The nervous tension in his posture is subtle, but unmistakable.
Dad’s gaze drops to Ruby, her tiny face just visible through the car seat’s cover. His stern features melt away almost instantly, replaced by a softness I don’t often see. “Well, look at her,” he says, crouching slightly to get a better look. “My newest granddaughter. She’s beautiful, Callie.”
“She’s perfect,” I say, my voice thick with emotion as I glance at Owen. His shoulders relax and the tension in the room seems to ease.
Shelly steps in then, reaching for Ruby with a coo. “Oh, let me take her for a bit.” She unbuckles Ruby carefully, scooping her up and swaying gently as Ruby’s little head rests against her shoulder.
Sara tugs on Dad’s sleeve, waving her picture excitedly. “Grandpa, look! I made this for you!”
Dad crouches down to her level, his tough exterior melting even further. “Well, look at that. Did you do this all by yourself?”
“Yes!” Sara beams, launching into an explanation about every crayon line on the page.
I glance at Owen, catching his eye from across the room. His expression is a mix of relief and lingering nerves. I move closer, brushing my hand against his. “See?” I whisper. “You’re doing great.”
He exhales softly, the corners of his lips lifting into a small smile. “One step at a time,” he murmurs back.
My own anxiety eases as I see him settle into the moment. My dad’s warmth toward Ruby and Sara is exactly what I hoped for, and seeing Owen slowly relax makes my chest ache with a quiet kind of joy.
The tension in the room fades as the evening unfolds. Dad cracks a few of his signature gruff jokes, half-test and half-tease, and Owen takes them in stride, responding with his usual confidence. By the time dessert rolls around, Dad leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.
“Well, Owen, you seem like a decent guy,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar blend of kindness and protective authority I’ve grown up with.
“Thank you, sir,” Owen replies, his tone respectful.
“But I’ll tell you this now—” Dad pauses, clearly enjoying the moment as a teasing glint lights up his eyes. “I’ve got a bullet with your name on it if you hurt my daughter. I’m still waiting for Callie to give me the green light for the one with Adam’s name on it. It’s locked and loaded as we speak.”
Owen grins, the weight of tension lifting entirely. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, sir.”
Dad’s booming laughter fills the room, warm and unguarded, like a burst of light breaking through a cloudy sky. The knot in my chest unravels and everything in this moment feels right.
As the laughter fades, I catch Owen’s eye, his gaze soft and steady.. My dad’s approval might have eased the tension, but it’s Owen’s unwavering presence that truly grounds me. I’m not bracing for something to go wrong anymore. Instead, I’m allowing myself to lean into the hope that’s been growing between us. The future we’re building feels real, solid, and within reach.