9. caleb
9
caleb
"I'm proud of you, son. Going after what you want. Finally stepping up and being a man."
My dad’s pride-filled voice booms through the phone in my ear as I weave through the chaos of Toronto Pearson Airport. People rush past on all sides, but I’ve only got my duffle bag slung over one shoulder, so maneuvering through the crowd isn’t too bad.
"Yeah, dad. You know me, your little ‘go-getter,’" I mutter, my voice laced with sarcasm.
Making him happy by following the plan he laid out for me makes my stomach twist, but... for some reason, his approval is still something I crave. Maybe because he’s all I have left. Without Sarah, he really is it. Well…Tony too, I guess. But who the hell counts Tony?
"You’ve got the ring, right?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"Good. I deposited more than enough money in your account. Susan booked you a suite at The St. Regis, and your driver should be waiting outside the airport now."
"Jeez, dad. You didn’t have to do all that."
"Please, son. If it weren’t for me, you’d be running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Don’t be stupid," he huffs.
My jaw clenches. Blood simmers beneath my skin. This was supposed to be my trip. My spontaneous moment. But what’s so spontaneous about my dad planning every damn detail? At this point, it doesn’t even feel like my proposal anymore.
"Yeah. Okay. Thanks," I say flatly.
I step outside onto the sidewalk, scanning the curb for the driver. That’s when I freeze.
My blood runs cold.
No. No way.
What the hell is he doing here?
I swallow hard, feeling the air get thin as everything else seems to fade into the background. There, a few feet away from me, standing under the bright street lamps like some cruel joke, is Nathaniel Philips.
I don’t know what’s worse: seeing him for the first time after all these years, or realizing I still have no will power to look away.
I pull my phone to my ear and murmur into the receiver, "Uh, dad? I gotta go," before hanging up without waiting for a response.
Nathaniel hasn’t even noticed me yet. I take this as a perfect moment to recognize how different he looks. He has filled out way more since I last saw him. He’s clearly been working out and gained the muscles he lacked throughout school. He's looking around, his eyes jumping from one direction to another, like he’s trying to find his bearings. It doesn’t take long, though, before his eyes catch mine.
When they do, time stretches, and I feel my pulse pick up. His face goes pale, his body stiffening like he’s been hit with a wave of electricity.
His eyes flicker across me, from my head to my shoes, then back up again, almost like he can’t believe I’m standing there. I can’t help it, I smirk. It’s petty, but something inside me takes satisfaction in seeing him like this. The way his whole demeanor changes—like he didn’t expect me to still have this kind of effect on him. I know I’ve always had some sort of effect on him and it’s nice to see it still lingering beneath the surface. I wonder if I can still coax it out.
I don’t wait. I walk toward him, my shoes marching loudly against the sidewalk.
"Oh no, no, no," he mutters, the words strained and choked. His voice is different now. It’s deeper, more jagged. And that sends something sharp right through my chest.
I raise an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch between us for a moment, enjoying the tension hanging thick in the air. “What in the hell are you doing here?” I ask, my voice low.
He glares at me, his jaw clenching. " Me!? Out of all the places on this Earth, you chose to be here, in Toronto, on this exact date. I'm the one that should be pissed."
I exhale slowly, letting his anger roll off me. “Listen, it’s a big city. I’m sure we’ll both manage.” I roll my eyes, casually scanning the sidewalk as if I'm in no rush to leave, even though every part of me wants to. I add, “But you didn’t answer my question—what are you doing here?”
The edge in my voice doesn’t go unnoticed. He lifts his chin, acting like he doesn’t care. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why, so you can beat me to it before I get there?” He huffs, arms folding across his chest like he’s trying to guard himself.
I can't help it. I smirk again. It's sick, but I’m glad to know I’m not the only one carrying around that mess from prom night. The mess that tore us apart. If I had the chance, would I go back and do things differently? Yeah, maybe. Wasn’t my smartest move. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of admitting that.
“Whatever,” I mutter, turning away from him. It’s supposed to feel like a victory, like I’m walking away from the past once and for all.
But then I stop. There’s something I can’t shake. I glance back over my shoulder, and I see the confusion etched across his face, his eyes glued to the tiny screen of his phone. He’s biting his lip, the same way he used to when he was frustrated. I can't ignore how much that little gesture makes my stomach flip. The same way it always did. My feet drag me back toward him before I even realize it.
It doesn't feel right. I have this nagging instinct to make sure he’s okay, even though he’s not my problem anymore.
"Dude, where are you headed? I can drive you," I offer.
His eyes snap to me, disbelief clouding his features. "What? No. I’ll figure it out." He stands taller, trying to act like he doesn’t need me.
But I keep pushing. “Are you waiting for a taxi? An Uber? Where are you staying?” I fire off questions, and I can see him growing more and more agitated. “Do you have any plans? At all?” I feel the weight of his silence between us, pulling tighter.
His confused eyes connect with mine. Fuck.
And then it hits me. “You don’t have anything planned, do you?”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I’ve already walked over to grab his mini suitcase and yank it away from him. The move is abrupt, and the shock on his face is exactly what I was hoping for.
“Hey! Give that back–” he shouts, but I don’t stop.
“Listen,” I snap, “you don’t have to do whatever I say, but it’s clear that you need help. You’ve got a problem, and I’ve got a solution. So stop being such a baby.”
I pull his suitcase towards the idling Chevy, ignoring the way his glare burns into my back.
The driver calls out, “Mr. Brown.”
I toss the suitcase into the backseat, not even looking back at Nathaniel. “This is us,” I say, sliding into the backseat.
He slides in next to me reluctantly, still muttering about how insufferable I am as he closes the door behind him. I can feel the weight of his frustration. I like how easily I can still read him even after all this time. His eyes flicker to the window, and he leans back in the seat, his hand running down his face. And then I notice the absence of his Clark Kent glasses.
Fuck. I loved those glasses.
It’s weird. It’s like we’ve both been caught in this strange orbit, unable to fully escape the other. And then I ask, half-joking, “I really hope you're not here for the same reason I am.”
His eyes meet mine, and I see that we’re both thinking the same thing. His expression shifts from annoyance to something else— apprehension .
The possibility of it all crashing in. Wait, no, no, no.
Fuck.