8. Peyton #3
Callum looks at me with grave concern. I count the worry lines on his forehead, then follow his gaze as it travels up and down my abused arms. I expect questions, but I don’t get them. Instead, Callum unzips his gray jacket and hands it to me. I quickly take it, zipping it up over my polo dress.
Then, he pulls something from his pocket. A little packet of antiseptic wipes. He wordlessly holds them out to me, and I could cry at the gesture.
I take them, tugging one out of the container and wiping my lower arms beneath the loose jacket, feeling a sting when I swipe it over the raw spots.
When I’m finished, I set them on top of my sweater, before meeting Callum’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He looks at me incredulously. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
“I… I forced you to come to this, and then I freaked out. I wasted your time.”
“Hey. No one should ever touch you without your consent. Ever.”
“He wasn’t aggressive or anything. And it was just my lower arms. I overreacted.”
Callum’s jaw ticks. “Peyton, he didn’t ask if he could touch you. No one gets to touch you without your permission. You don’t have to minimize your pain in front of me. It’s valid.”
Wrapping my arms around myself, I sag back into my seat, the sound of his voice washing some of my tension away. I don’t need anyone’s affirmation, but it feels nice to know he’s on my side.
“Paul didn’t know about my aversion to… Well, I just don’t like to be touched. By men.”
Callum nods calmly. “Am I too close right now? Should I move?”
“No. It’s only touch, and I… I don’t really feel crowded by you, like I do with other men, I guess?”
“How do you usually feel when a man touches you?” he asks gently.
Fear. Regret. Nausea. But those words don’t seem big enough to convey how I feel. I search my mind for a more accurate description, but pictures are the only things that surface.
“Like my hand is on fire. Like my skin is burning off. Like I need to dip it in ice. And…” I take a deep breath, averting my eyes. “Sometimes, I do. I mean, I just did. I have to run it under cold water. It’s a compulsion.”
Hedging a glance at him, I wonder if I’ll see distaste, but all I find is genuine, empathetic hazel eyes.
I grab a piece of my hair, knotting and unknotting the end. “Anyway, I’m not even remotely used to physical touch from men anymore. Even women still give me pause if the vibes are off.”
“You’re not alone. Physical touch is kind of new for me, too,” Callum says quietly.
“What do you mean?”
I’ve gathered by now that Callum doesn’t go out much. He said he hasn’t been a “couple” in a while. But being single doesn’t have to mean less physical intimacy, and neither does being introverted.
“I haven’t really touched a woman since my last girlfriend. And, uh, we broke up freshman year of college,” he says.
I feel my jaw drop slightly. Callum is conventionally hot. Thick auburn hair you can run your hands through, dreamy hazel eyes, freckles, muscular frame. I’d imagine a line of women would be knocking on his door.
“Why?” The question flies out of my mouth before I can put a filter on it. “Sorry. That’s personal. You don’t have to share.”
He exhales a long breath before angling his body to face mine completely.
“I’ve had some mental health stuff I’ve been dealing with for a while now.
Sometimes, just going out is a lot. Like putting on a ‘happy face’ when I’m not feeling happy.
I’ve been working on it in therapy, and I’ve been making a lot of progress. ”
If it wasn’t confirmed already, now I know for sure: Callum is a trier, through and through.
My grandpa was big on the concept of “trying.” Whenever I became frustrated, like I couldn’t do something, he’d say “as long as you’re a trier, Peyton, it’s enough.
” Trying doesn’t always mean helping. Sometimes trying means getting help.
And I know therapy takes effort. It takes trying.
It comforts me, knowing that Callum takes care of himself. That he tries.
And his reaction to all of this, to what just happened, is proof that it’s working.
He didn’t seem afraid, or threaten to do something on my behalf.
The go-at-my-pace calm that he’s maintained this whole time…
It’s been more than anything I could’ve asked for.
More than I’ve received in the past. And I want to give him something, too.
“Me too. I go to therapy. And, even though it might not seem like it, I’ve made progress. I’ve done small exposure therapies, and I’m more comfortable around men now. Well, more comfortable than I was before.”
“You don’t have to justify your progress to me. I believe you,” he says softly.
My heart swells, and my mind starts wandering to what my life might’ve looked like if I had this kind of validation in my past. But then, I might never have come to Waterton, never have met Callum.
I can’t change what happened. And even though I feel calmer right now, there’s still an underlying feeling of disappointment.
A certain frustration that I’ve been robbed of experiencing the rest of the gig panic-free with Callum.
Before the incident, I was so… unwound around him.
Like I could finally let my guard down with a man.
And I want that feeling—and some agency—back.
I wonder…
“Can we try something, Callum? Would you, um, touch me? On my wrist.”
A bit of bravery battles my nerves, leaving me cautiously confident. I want to replace the feeling of Paul’s touch with Callum’s. I want it to be Callum. I’m asking for it to be Callum.
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I don’t want to cause you more…” He searches for the right word. “…pain. You, um, won’t run away?”
“No, I won’t run. Honestly? I’m more likely to throw up.”
Yikes. I meant for my tone to be funny, but the grains of truth buried within it didn’t quite land. I give him a weak smile.
Callum shrugs. “Eh, it’d be okay if you did. I have that extra change of clothes in my car, and I’m really sick of looking perfect anyway.”
I chuckle, feeling more at ease. “Yeah, well, if I do vomit, I give you full permission to throw up on me as retribution.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Really kind of you, but I don’t know that I’d consider throwing up to be a prize.”
“And I don’t know why we’re still talking about throwing up. Fuck—I’m so sorry. I’m being weird.” I cover my face with my hands before peeking out between my fingers.
He throws me a lopsided grin. “If you’re being weird, then I’m being weird, too.”
“Okay. We can both be weird.” My posture relaxes.
“Do you still want me to touch you?” Callum asks softly. His eyes are honest and imploring, and his body language exudes calm. It might be my favorite thing about him.
“Yeah, I do.”
Callum nods. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”
He hesitates for a second before slowly bringing his hand toward my wrist. As his fingers move closer, I will myself not to flinch. He’s safe.
Even his hand has freckles on it, matching the ones dotting his cheeks.
He’s safe, I remind myself.
The tension between us feels heavy, wrought with big expectations.
You’re in control.
His fingers lower, ever-so-slightly, until they’re almost touching my skin.
This is it.
You’re ready.
I pull in a deep, slow breath.
And then I punch him directly in the face.