Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
CALLIE
The front door slams behind me, rattling the picture frames in the hallway and the glass in the china cabinet. My hands won’t stop shaking, and all I want is to disappear into the void until no one can find me. No reporters. No Theo. No one.
“Callie?”
Shit. Dad’s voice carries from the kitchen, warm and concerned. Of course he’s here. He probably knew trouble was coming from a mile away. He always had a good sixth sense, even when I was sixteen and sneaking in through my bedroom window at two in the morning. Dad was always there.
But I don’t want him to see this. My throat tightens. “I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I’m already halfway to the basement door, desperate to escape before he can read everything written across my face.
“Alley cat, hold up.”
“What, Dad?” I snap, too harsh for the man who taught me how to play ball. My chest aches, tears stinging. I will not fucking cry. I will. Not. Cry. I blink hard, willing the tears back.
“What happened?” His voice is closer now, and when I turn around, he’s studying me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. There’s genuine worry creasing the corners of his eyes, and I hate that I’m the reason.
The sight of it makes me want to collapse to the floor. I can’t deal with this right now. Not his concern, his questions, the way he’s looking at me like I’m that scared teenager who used to come home with bruised knuckles and a chip on her shoulder.
“Nothing happened.” I yank open the basement door. I race down the wooden steps, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest. The familiar scent of paint and old canvas wraps around me, but instead of comfort, it brings rage.
No, not like that, Callie. God, what would you do without me?
Theo’s voice hisses through my mind as I stare at my art.
Try fucking harder, Callie! This might have impressed your parents, but this is fucking New York City! Act like you fucking care.
All those fucking canvases from before Theo, when I actually believed in goodness. When I thought I could make something of myself.
No one would even know your name if it wasn’t for me. I fucking made you a someone and this is how you repay me?
I truly believe that people would love my art. Love me.
You’re fucking pathetic.
But he stole it. Took it all for himself.
The canvases are stacked against the far wall, mocking me, reminding me of everything I’ve lost. This is my fault.
All of it. I let him in. I thought I loved him.
I should have known better but turns out Theo was right about one thing: I am fucking pathetic.
Blood boiling, I grab the first one. A landscape I painted of the old oak tree behind our house, and before I can think twice, I drive my fist through it. The canvas tears with a satisfying rip. A big, gaping wound that mirrors the one in my soul, and suddenly I can’t stop.
Another canvas. Another hole. Dried paint scatters across the concrete floor like confetti at the world’s most depressing party.
“Callie!”
Dad’s boots thunder down the stairs, but I’m already reaching for the next painting. This one’s bigger, an abstract piece I was actually proud of once upon a time. My hands find the edges, ready to rip it in half. Maybe if I destroy them all, they can’t hurt me.
Strong arms wrap around me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides. The canvas falls to the floor, but it’s unharmed. Whole. Still taunting me.
“Easy, baby girl. Easy,” Dad soothes.
“Let me go!” I struggle against his grip, but Dad’s got the solid build of a blue-collar man who’s spent his life doing physical work. “I need to get rid of them all!”
“No, honey.” His voice is steady, calm. “Breathe.”
But I can’t. I’m shaking so hard my teeth are chattering, and the walls feel like they’re closing in. Every canvas in this basement is a reminder of who I used to be before Theo stole everything from me. The girl I’ll never be again.
I buck in his hold, trying to get out so I can rip that goddamn landscape in half.
“Jesus, Callie.” He grunts. “What happened?” Dad asks, refusing to let me go.
“Everything’s ruined!” The words tear out of my throat raw and desperate. “Everything’s fucking ruined!”
“What’s going on down there?” Mom’s voice cuts through my breakdown from the top of the stairs, sharp with concern.
Oh great. Mom’s here too! Now they can both realize how pathetic their daughter is.
“Sally, put some tea on,” Dad calls back without loosening his hold on me. “We’ll be up in a minute.” Her footsteps retreat, and with her departure, some of my gusto fades. “Talk to me, Cal.” Dad’s voice is gentle but firm. “What happened?”
“Everything.” The word comes out as a sob. “He ruined everything.” With that confession comes tears I can’t leash. The pain rips my chest open, and I can’t escape it, all I can do is endure it.
Dad doesn’t push for details, he simply holds me steady while I cry. My dad’s always been good at this, knowing when to push and when to let me fall apart safely. Eventually, I catch my breath, but a chill wracks my body. I shiver and Dad sighs.
“You’re going to be okay, Callie.” He loosens his grip slightly, testing to see if I’m going to make another grab for the paintings. When I don’t move, he turns me around to face him. “Can you walk upstairs? Mom’s making tea.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. My legs feel like jelly, but Dad keeps one steady hand on my elbow as we climb back up to the kitchen where the kettle’s already starting to whistle.
I press my lips together, watching Mom’s concerned expression deepen as I tell her and Dad about the reporter showing up at the art store and the worst of what happened between me and Theo.
The whole thing sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.
Some woman hunting me down to write a story about my theft.
“That’s awful.” Mom shakes her head, her fingers drumming against the kitchen table. She glances down at a stack of mail beside her coffee mug, and she sucks in a breath. A wince crosses her features before she looks back up at me with guilt playing across her face.
“What?” I ask, caution creeping into my voice.
“Oh, Cal, I’m so sorry.” She reaches for an envelope near the bottom of the pile. “This came for you yesterday, and with the festival, I completely forgot.”
My stomach drops before I even see what she’s holding. The envelope looks official. Thick cream paper with my name typed across the front in formal black letters. My hands shake as I take it from her.
“What is it?” Dad asks from his spot at the table, still holding his mug.
I rip open the envelope, fingers shaking. The words swim on the page for a moment before they come into sharp, terrible focus. They sucker punch me, ripping the oxygen from my lungs.
Summons.
Theodore Martin vs. Callie Mae Harrison.
Theft of intellectual property. Demand for reparations.
A laugh bubbles up, but there’s nothing funny about any of this. It’s hollow and bitter.
“That mother fucker.” The words come out strangled.
Mom snatches the papers from my trembling fingers, scanning the legal jargon. Dad leans toward her, reading over her shoulder, and I watch both their faces go pale.
“What exactly is he suing you for?” Dad’s voice carries the dangerous edge he used on the guys at brunch the other day.
“Everything I sold while I was in New York.” I sink into the kitchen chair. My bones feel heavy. Even breathing, as natural as it is, hurts. “Which wasn’t much, but apparently Theo needs to make this look believable. He can’t claim my work is his and then let me profit from it, right?”
The words are ash on my tongue. The pieces I actually managed to sell, maybe a dozen paintings total over a few years, barely covered rent for a month. But Theo’s playing the long game here, building his narrative. The tortured artist betrayed by his psycho ex-girlfriend.
Too bad it’s the other way around. God, I hope someone shoves a bat covered in barbed wire up his ass.
“We’ll figure this out.” Mom’s features harden stubbornly. “We’ll hire a lawyer, fight this thing.”
Dad nods firmly. “I’ll call the bank tomorrow. We can take out a second mortgage on the house—”
“Absolutely not.” The words burst out of me. “You are not risking your home because my ex-boyfriend is a lying piece of shit.” This is my problem. Not theirs. It’s my mess to clean up.
“Callie Mae,” Dad begins.
“No, Dad.” I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. “I got myself into this mess. I’ll figure my own way out.” I’m an adult. That’s what adults do. So why do I feel like curling into the fetal position?
Mom exhales, nodding. “At least talk to someone. Mr. Davidson has been practicing law for years now. He helped Annette settle that lawsuit, you remember that, right?”
I want to argue, but the fight drains out of me.
The summons sits on the table between us like a ticking bomb, and I’m running out of ways to defuse it.
Mr. Davidson might be able to help me. It’s not like I can afford anything else.
Theo made damn sure to ruin my credit. I’ve been trying to pay it off as fast as I can, which means my bank account is pretty pathetic.
“Fine.” My voice sounds defeated even to my own ears. “I’ll call him.”
“That bastard won’t win.” Dad’s hands clench. “He can’t steal your life’s work and then sue you for it. That’s not right.”
“He won’t get away with it,” Mom agrees.
But as I stare down at the legal papers, Theo’s smug face flashing through my memory, I’m not so sure. What’s right and wrong means nothing when you have family with deep pockets.