10. Callum #2
“Not really. We went to two different schools, so I’m not sure the distance would’ve worked anyway. She’s a good person, but I was in my head at the time, going through my mental health stuff. It… I was a lot to handle.”
Peyton pauses, looking thoughtful. “Well, my sixty-three personas and I are a lot to handle. So, I guess we have that in common, then.”
How does she do it? She has this unreal ability to never leave me hanging. Peyton may be an expert influencer, but her greatest talent is observation. She notices when someone needs a lift, and she offers it without hesitation.
For the next forty-five minutes, I admire the way she commands the room, moving through the crowd, captivating anyone and everyone. I’m utterly transfixed, watching her weave the cider into nearly every interaction.
“Anyway, I immediately knew I’d never go back to Japan. After my love affair with the chef, it was too heartbreaking,” a thirty-something woman wearing a knee-length cardigan tells Peyton near the bar counter.
Peyton frowns, shaking her head. “That’s so hard. I’ve visited Japan, and I can’t say I’ve been missing a love affair, but you know what I have been missing? Their Fuji apples. So fresh and delicious. But I gotta say, I think this cider is nearly just as good. Have you tried it?”
Later, a guy wearing a fedora strikes up a conversation with Peyton by the stage where the band’s setting up, mentioning he used to live in New York. “I did a stint on Broadway before coming back to Waterton,” he brags.
“That takes a ton of talent. I bet being on stage was addicting.” A glint of mischief flashes in Peyton’s eyes. “Actually, I just heard the funniest joke involving theater.”
“Tell me!”
“Alright, it’s kind of cheesy. Just remember you asked me for this!” Peyton clears her throat. “Why did the apple join Broadway?” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Because it loved apple-ause!”
The guy tips his fedora. “Oh my God, I needed that.”
Peyton winks. “Hey, if you thought that was good, you should try the cider. Do you want me to grab you a glass?”
Then, in between a plate of appetizers in the dining section of the establishment, a guy with a long beard wearing a gray beanie starts speaking with her. “So that’s how my safari jeep got attacked by a hippo,” he tells her.
“Whoa. Talk about wild, huh?” She shakes her head. “It’s so funny you bring up hippos, because I was watching a documentary the other day, and they mentioned how hippos are obsessed with apples. I bet they’d love this incredible cider, huh?”
Being with Peyton is so effortless, especially for someone like me.
She seamlessly navigates every conversation until she’s the most popular person in the room.
People she just met five minutes ago are introducing her to their friend fifteen minutes later.
She makes good impression after good impression—no fumbles whatsoever.
And being around her also makes it easier for me to socialize.
To talk with other people instead of being furniture or trailing her around in silence.
It’s only after she’s met every single guest in the room that Peyton looks remotely tired, leaning against the wall and sighing. “Alright. Only five more minutes until I can start on The Goodbye.”
“What’s that tone about?”
“Oh, The Goodbye is the worst part of any job. Each assignment requires a different one, and unless it’s The Irish, I could be in for another hour.”
I scratch my chin. “There are different types of goodbyes?”
“Oh, sweet Callum. There are oodles of goodbyes, ranging in complexity.”
“Tell me more.”
“Okay. There’s The French Exit, The Midwest Goodbye, The Uber’s Here! Fear, The Live Action Work Email, The Pantomime, The Concerned Citizen, The Na Na Na Na, The Uno Reverse, The New York Minute, The Magician’s Twist…” She trails off. “I mean, I could go on, but I won’t bore you.”
“Go on.”
“What?”
“You said you could go on. So, go on.”
“You want me to list them all? What if there are fifty?”
“Make it one hundred.” I tilt my head. “I genuinely want to hear anything you have to say.”
Talk about the volume of the speakers. The shape of that fake orange leaf on the floor. Your preference on the different types of printer paper.
I want to hear it all because it’s her saying it.
Her lips tip up. Every time I do something to make Peyton happier, it kicks my own self-esteem up a few notches, like I’ve accomplished a little bit of greatness.
Peyton spends the next several minutes listing every Goodbye she knows while I listen with rapt attention.
Her eyes spark at the silliest ones, color rushing into her cheeks.
She tells me which of the Goodbyes she invented, and which were already established.
My gaze clings to her animated expressions, only straying once to appreciate the way she tucks her hair behind her ear.
She taps her lower lip. “So, that makes… what? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-nine, I think.”
Peyton nods. “Well. Time to start The Pantomime.”
“And what does that entail?”
“The owner already told me I don’t need to stop by when my contracted time is over, but I hate to leave without notifying anyone.
So, I wait to catch her attention, and then I mouth, I’m going to get going, thank you for everything, this was amazing, with a hand on my heart—like this.
” She brings her hand to her chest and leans forward slightly with a closed mouth smile on her face.
Then she drops the pose. “Pretty good, right?”
I shake my head. “You are unbelievable.”
Peyton flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder with mock flair. “It never gets old, hearing that.”
After The Pantomime is executed flawlessly, we walk out of Stan’s. The brewery was so hot and crowded that both of us choose to hold our coats instead of wearing them. Peyton’s scarf hangs loosely around her neck, and she sighs in relief when the cool breeze hits her skin.
It doesn’t take long to find my truck, and I jog around to open her car door before coming around to the driver’s side.
I glance at my dashboard and sigh. At this hour, sadly there won’t be traffic.
As I set my keys in the cupholder, I wonder how slowly I can drive down the highway without either getting a ticket or being a safety hazard. I don’t want the night to end.
“You ready to go home?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt.
“The question you should be asking is, ‘Are you ready to listen exclusively to music from the 1950s for nearly an hour?’ And my answer is a lukewarm sure.” She smirks.
I turn the key in the ignition, and the song we were listening to when we got here starts back up again: “I Could Write a Book” by Dinah Washington. The lyrics seem fitting for the two of us. I probably could write a novel about Peyton. The preface on how I met her is practically drafted already.
While Dinah croons in the background, Peyton spends the next fifty-minutes regaling me with hilarious stories about the chaos that ensued each time she picked the “wrong” Goodbye at a few of her former gigs.
It’s the best drive down Route 23 I’ve ever taken.
As soon as I park my truck outside her place, I unbuckle my seatbelt so I can walk her to her door.
But Peyton doesn’t make a move to get out of the truck. She sits and plays with the yarn dangling from her scarf.
I can’t get a good read on her. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, but now she’s twisting her hair around her finger, which I’m starting to realize is a nervous habit of hers.
I don’t want to push, so I stay seated and say nothing. I’m fine with silence—comfortable, even—and I’m happy to sit here with her until she’s ready to go inside.
We both stare out the windshield. The street lamp is the only glow illuminating my truck. And when I look over at Peyton, my eyes linger on the burnt orange streak of light stretching across her collarbone. Not wanting to stare for too long, I wrestle my focus back to the building ahead of us.
When she starts speaking again, her words are so soft I almost miss them.
“I’m wondering if we could try again.”
“Try what ag—” I cut myself off. Because I know what she’s talking about. “You want me to touch you?” I swallow thickly, still looking straight ahead, not wanting to scare her with an over-the-top reaction.