5. Dakota
5
DAKOTA
Who does he think he is?
He’s Callaway Hayes, that’s who.
I can answer my own question.
It still doesn't give him the right to boss me around and insert himself in my business. It’s like he has a hero complex or something.
He can stay in the car. I don’t need his help.
I’ve made it this far alone, and I’m perfectly capable of handling Trevor. No matter how cruel he can be at times.
I want to say the breakup between Trevor and I was a mutual thing, but it wasn’t. Trevor ended things with me; although he treated me poorly, I’m confident enough to admit that he dodged a bullet.
I’ve let my grief consume me to the point of losing myself this last year. I know I can only live like this for so long. Trevor eventually had enough of it—enough of me.
I was too blind to see what was right in front of me—someone who never truly loved me and left me like I meant nothing.
It seems I bring that out in people .
When we split, I was able to get most of my things out on my own, but with moving myself at the same time, I forgot to get the last few things I had left. I didn’t leave anything of major importance except for a filing crate that has the deed to my parents’ home in it. A home I refuse to visit until I’m positive I can handle it.
I wasn’t expecting Callaway to insist on bringing me here, or even giving me a ride, for that matter.
But I’m thankful.
Even though I don’t agree with his random urge of protectiveness over something he knows nothing about, I’m still thankful, nonetheless. The alternative would have been facing Trevor tomorrow and that sounds like actual hell.
I’ll take force with a side of care, please.
We pull up to the front of the swanky building. I take a second to pause and try to remember what it felt like living here for so long.
It looks more like a high rise for the elite rather than an apartment complex. The building aesthetics are jet black with gold doors, framing, and all accessories imaginable. Windows with a panoramic view and a balcony accessible off two ends accompany each individual apartment.
Luxurious is a mild term for this level of living.
Trevor comes from a long line of cutting edge doctors around Atlanta and is currently in his final year of residency before starting his fellowship. I wouldn’t say that his income warrants this degree of lavished fortune, though. It does have me curious about who pays the difference. I gave him what I could afford when I lived here, and he handled the rest.
The apartment is located in downtown Atlanta. It’s about the only thing I miss about this place—easy access to all my favorite restaurants and shops. The traffic is insane and requires constant attention because these Georgia peaches refuse to believe in traffic laws.
Callaway pulls up to one of the few available parking spots for visitors outside the building and shuts the car off. He’s waiting for me to say something.
Deep breaths, Dakota, deep breaths.
With a deep sigh, I hear him open the car door and circle around the hood to meet me at mine. Is he going to help me out?
For some reason, I can’t get myself to make eye contact with him. I feel ashamed. Not that I did anything wrong, but I’m ashamed he was here to witness it all. The truck and the conversation with Trevor. He’s already helping me in a big way by giving me a ride and now this.
I’m embarrassed and doing everything not to show it.
The sound of my door opening forces my attention to where Callaway is standing, holding it open for me to step out.
He looks at me in question, “You good?”
No, I’m not. But I can be for the sake of not wanting you to dig any farther .
My eyes find him and send him a small nod. “Let’s get this over with.”
Callaway follows me quietly as I guide us up the apartment steps. The place now feels so foreign and strange—a peculiar feeling after living here a few months ago.
Trevor left the spare key under the mat for me to enter. I hastily grab it, breathing in a heavy sigh at the thought of revisiting this place.
These walls are filled with so many memories I’d like to forget.
Callaway doesn’t make a sound, and I’m grateful for the quiet he provides. It takes me a couple of tries before the key gives way, opening the heavy door before me.
Trevor left it exactly how it’s always been—minus the photos of us littered around the space.
Except without my care, it feels dirty and dry—much like him.
How did I ever live here?
“How can I help?” I almost forget I’m not alone, Cal’s deep voice startling me for a moment.
Looking around the living room, I search my eyes for any miscellaneous things I may have forgotten. “Um, I don’t see anything out here, so maybe we can grab the last few things from the bedroom?”
He nods his head, directing me to lead the way.
As we head towards the room, I hear Callaway stop on a chuckle. “What the fuck is this? Trevor seems to be slightly in love with himself, angel.”
Stop calling me that.
He’s not wrong. Trevor has always been in love with himself.
It’s part of the problem, I’d say. Callaway is laughing at Trevor’s college football picture from his senior year at Georgia State. He looks ridiculous looking at it now. His chest and cheeks are puffed out like they're full of acorns, and his eyes are bulging from their sockets.
The aura of the picture screams I’m a beefhead .
He would have an enlarged picture of himself be the only thing hanging on these walls. Arrogant prick.
I carry on, my footsteps now syncing with Callaway’s as we enter Trevor’s bedroom. My old bedroom.
“So, this is where the magic happened?” I wonder if he can read into my sarcastic laugh. Not likely; I’ve always had a dry sense of humor .
“Or lack thereof.”
“Ooh sounds like a sore subject.” That’s the understatement of the century.
“You have no idea.”
I make my way to the closet, happy to see the lack of things Trevor now has without me living here. Seeing him go without something for a change makes me oddly satisfied.
I grab the first box on top and begin shuffling it around to make sure nothing is missing before Callaway speaks up. “Douche boy couldn’t find the sweet spot, I’m guessing?
I answer before thinking about what he asked me.
“More like didn’t even try.” Foot meet mouth. That information is none of his business, and I need to do better about keeping my mouth shut.
“What’s that supposed to mean? You were his girlfriend, right?”
I glance at him, hoping he can see how painful this conversation is for me. “Yes, Callaway. Keyword, was. ” He looks genuinely confused.
Yes, pretty boy. Not every man in this world is wired to look and act as perfect as you.
“Why?” He really is nosey. My suspicions in the car have only been confirmed.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but the way I look didn’t do it for him I guess.” I can’t look his way. It’s humiliating, and I’ve already spilled too much.
Back to the boxes. Where is that other one I was loo?—
“Is he fucking blind?” I feel him suddenly right next to me. I know if I look up, I’ll come face to face with his jeans. He’s too close, and he’s already seeing through me much more than I'm comfortable with.
But that’s the thing—he’s making me feel strangely too comfortable in his presence. What is going on with me today ?
“It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.” I doubt that will happen, but I say it anyway.
I feel him slowly lower his large frame to the carpeted floor, meeting me face to face among the brown boxes scattered around us. Callaway ducks his head slightly to catch my eyes, causing me to move my stare from the task at hand and settle into his heavy blue stare.
“He’s a goddamn fool. Anyone with a working set of eyes could see that.”
He’s studying me so carefully, like he can't quite figure me out.
We don’t know each other unless you count the things we know from Navy alone, yet I’ve never felt more seen in my life. I didn’t have to clarify anything—he knew.
That’s refreshing for a change. A feeling I’m unfamiliar with.
I fight the small blush attempting to creep its way in. I don’t want his pity, but I appreciate the sentiment.
“Yeah well, his loss, right?”
I’m doing my best to laugh it off playfully.
He no doubt catches on to that because playful has not been my vibe today. Embarrassment is more my speed with how I’m currently feeling.
Nothing like wasting years of your life with someone who barely considers you average.
“A loss that will one day haunt him. I’m sure of it.”
Oh. I wasn’t expecting that.
After confirming I have all the leftover boxes, Callaway takes them one by one to the Jeep while I triple-check the house again with no plans to return.
This place is an absolute pigsty.
How can Trevor live in such chaos and filth? I spot a broom in the corner of the room and decide to clean up the mess around me.
Not for Trevor, but because I know he will find a way to blame the dirt covering the kitchen floor on me, knowing I’ve been here.
I’m not giving him the chance.
I grab the broom and start sweeping up all the disgusting pieces of old, dried-up food, dirt, hair, and whatever else made its way to this floor. I accumulate piles of filth scattered in what looks like random anthills throughout the kitchen.
Thankfully, this is not my problem anymore.
The domestic side of me, however, can’t help but be productive when seeing a mess right in front of me.
Reaching down with the dustpan to collect the dirt, a deep voice exasperated in disbelief echoes throughout the room.
“The fuck? Get off the floor, Dakota.”
Callaway, the newly named caveman, grabs my arm, and pulls me off the ground, throwing me off balance. I reach for the cabinet beside me to stabilize myself and send daggers his way.
“What does it look like I’m doing, you big Goliath?”
Whereas most men would probably laugh at my name-calling, Callaway ignores it completely, his teeth grinding and heavy breaths scissoring. “It looks to me like you’re cleaning up the mess that belongs to a fucking coward of a man. He doesn’t deserve your kindness.”
I have no words. My jaw is locked open, shocked by the forcefulness that’s seeping from him. Not forceful in a controlling way, but in a way that demands respect for myself.
He’s right.
“What am I doing?” I look down at myself, witnessing the mess Trevor has made in his home. After everything he’s done, I still got on my hands and knees to clean up his mess.
Never again.
I refuse to be someone’s rag doll.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
My eyes find Callaway, hoping he can tell how sorry I am that he had to witness my downfall. Although small, it gives me the wake-up I need.
I know I don’t owe Cal an apology, but I hate that he saw that vulnerable part of me, the part I work hard to keep hidden.
He gives me time to gather my thoughts before directing him on what's next.
“We should go.” I don’t want to be here any longer.
I quickly grab the spare key and turn to look at the scattered dirt piles I left across the kitchen.
Great. Now Trevor will come home and see that I couldn’t help myself but to clean.
Callaway must read my thoughts because before I have a chance to speak up, he does the unexpected. “Yeah, we should. But first, I need to take care of something.”
Okay…
My mind explodes before me as I have the pleasure of witnessing Callaway turn his body around before kicking the large piles of dirt, sending the disgusting mess airborne through Trevor’s apartment.
Five piles of filth, to be specific.
I’m shocked; this is turning out to be a better day.
I’m smiling before I realize it’s happening .
Take that, Trevor. My thighs look fucking amazing in straps—I’ll never let another man tell me different.
After ensuring every pile of dirt has been demolished and coating some furniture nearby, Callaway turns around, shaking the dirt from his giant hands.
“That’s more like it. Now Trevor can see what it’s like to be treated like the filth he is.”
I’m stunned. My body is in complete shock as I secure the door behind us, placing the key back under the mat and following Callaway back to his Jeep.
What just happened?