Chapter 44 Caleb
Five days. That's how long it's been since everything imploded at Lucky Strike, and I've spent every single one of them perfecting the art of avoidance. Well, except for that one night I showed up at Brodie's drunk off my ass, but we don't talk about that.
I'm halfway through shoving frozen waffles into my mouth when Dad clears his throat from the doorway. He's already dressed for work—flannel shirt tucked into jeans, boots laced tight—but he's not moving toward the door like usual.
"So." He scratches his jaw, that sandpaper sound he makes when he's thinking too hard. "Boston."
"Yeah." I take another bite of waffle, syrup dripping onto my plate. Running away has always been my specialty, but this time I might've taken it a bit too literally. "Tonight."
"Look, son, I . . ." He stops, runs a hand through his graying hair. "Maybe I should've said this before, but—"
"Dad, it's fine." I cut him off, not ready for whatever this is. "You don't have to—"
"I'm proud of you." The words tumble out fast, like he's been holding them back for years. "For the gaming thing, for taking this chance. I know I haven't always been . . . I might've been too hard on you, and—"
"Really, it's okay." I stand up, suddenly desperate to escape this kitchen, this conversation, the weight of his guilt-heavy eyes. "I should probably pack."
He deflates slightly, shoulders sagging. "Right. Of course."
I dump my plate in the sink, hyperaware of the silence stretching between us. Dad hovers by the doorway, like he wants to say more but doesn't know how.
Then, before I can react, he steps forward and pulls me into a hug. His arms are solid around me, and he smells of coffee and Old Spice, and for a second, I'm eight again, before everything got complicated.
It's weird. But also . . . nice.
"Caleb?"
"Yeah?" My voice comes out muffled against his shoulder.
He releases me, clearing his throat. "Just . . . call when you get there. Your mother worries." He pauses, looks away. "I do too. Want to know how you're settling in."
The olive branch is so tentative, so unlike him, that my chest does this weird squeeze thing.
"Sure," I manage. "I'll call."
He nods once, sharp and decisive, then heads for the door. The soft click of it closing leaves me alone with my half-eaten waffle, and the strange sense that we're both trying to fix something neither of us can name yet.
The bell above Cheesy Delights' door jingles for what has to be the millionth time, but today it sounds different. More final. After eight years of questionable life choices, and even more questionable pizza combinations, this is it.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announce to our nonexistent lunch rush, spreading my arms wide. "After years of dedicated service, countless burnt crusts, and that one legendary incident with the pepperoni launcher—"
"You're being dramatic," Martin says, watching me stack boxes with way more ceremony than necessary. "It's a pizza shop, not the mafia."
I hop onto the counter, ignoring his eye roll. "The grand finale. The last hurrah. The—"
"The last time you'll sit your ass on my clean counter?" Lines around his eyes crinkle despite the gruff tone. He's been manning these ovens longer than I've been alive, and somehow still hasn't lost that spark of mischief beneath his weathered exterior.
"You love me." I slide off, leaving one last butt print on the stainless steel. "I'm your favorite failure-to-launch case study."
"You were my only failure-to-launch case study." He tosses a ball of dough into the air with practiced ease. "Until now."
"Getting soft in your old age, boss?"
"More like tired of your smart mouth." But his hands, permanently stained with traces of flour and sauce, fumble slightly. "Now make yourself useful and pack those frozen orders while I pretend not to notice you stealing half my inventory."
The kitchen seems smaller today, every corner stuffed with echoes.
That temperamental front register only works if you whisper sweet nothings to it.
Above the counter, a perpetually crooked menu board showcases my artistic additions—mostly inappropriate doodles of toppings in compromising positions—that have somehow become part of the charm.
And in the back, the walk-in freezer has witnessed more emotional breakdowns than a therapist's couch.
"Remember when I tried to revolutionize pizza technology?" I carefully stack boxes into the thermal bag. "The Great Mac and Cheese Disaster?"
"You mean when you nearly burned down my kitchen trying to prove anything can be a topping?" Martin's mustache twitches. "Cost me a fortune in fire extinguisher refills."
"But I was right."
"You were an idiot." He wipes his hands on his apron. "Still are, but at least now you're an idiot with potential."
"Martin . . ."
"Don't." He points a floury finger at me. "I've watched you hide in this kitchen for years, making jokes instead of plans. It's about time you actually tried being something more than the town's favorite pizza boy."
I zip up the thermal bag, thinking how this is the last time I'll hear that specific sound.
"Thanks for letting me leave early. And for, you know . . ." I gesture vaguely at everything.
"For putting up with your shit?"
"I was going to say 'being a mentor,' but yeah, that too."
Martin waves me off, though I don't miss the sheen in his brown eyes. "Get out of here before you make me emotional in my own kitchen."
"I gave you my best years," I declare, pressing a hand to my chest. "My blood, sweat, and tears are in these ovens."
"That's a health code violation." Martin turns, and I catch something soft in his expression before it disappears under his usual brusqueness. "And you're twenty-six, kid. These better not have been your best years."
"They weren't all bad." I gesture to the dent by the prep station. "Remember when I tried to prove I could spin two pizzas at once?"
"You mean when you concussed yourself?" He snorts, adjusting the temperature dial with the exact twist it needs. "Yeah, that pretty much sums up your entire career here."
The bell chimes one last time as I leave, and I pretend not to hear the suspicious sniff behind me. Some things are better left unsaid, even if we both know the truth.
Afternoon light slants across the 'Employee of the Month' wall. Empty, except for that one time Martin put up a picture of his cat, just to spite us all.
Driving to James's place is heavier than it should be, the thermal bag of frozen pizzas riding shotgun like a guilty reminder.
He's finally coming home today after five days in the hospital, and I can't shake the thought that none of us saw it unfolding this way.
Or maybe we did, and we were all too caught up in our own dramas to notice. Some best friend I turned out to be.
Ivy and Amelia have been rotating shifts with Daphne, whose quiet devastation is its own kind of heartbreak.
I've caught glimpses of them in the hospital café—Daphne's hands wrapped around coffee she never drinks, Ivy's gentle presence a stark reminder of everything I'm still learning about what it means to show up for people.
Yesterday I'd spotted her car in the parking lot, the passenger seat stacked with sports magazines that we both knew James would never actually open.
But tucked underneath was a single worn paperback.
Some sci-fi novel James had been obsessed with freshman year but never admitted to liking when anyone caught him reading it.
Nobody else would remember him shoving that book in his backpack whenever we came around, but Ivy did. She always did.
I pull up to the Price's house, their spare key tucked in its hiding spot.
"Time for an upgrade, buddy," I mutter, stacking the pizzas in the freezer.
The Xbox setup gives my hands something to do, downloading the new games James has been wanting to try but never bought for himself, while my mind circles the same tired track.
How did we miss this? How many late-night gaming sessions did we waste on surface-level bullshit when James was drowning right next to us?
Funny how watching your best friend break makes you realize how stupid it is to live in fear of failure. When Pixel Dreams fast-tracked everything after I called them, it felt like a sign. Matt and Sarah didn't even hesitate offering their spare room in Boston.
But let's be honest, James wasn't the only wake-up call.
Ivy ripped me apart, laid out every truth I'd been running from.
The worst part? She wasn't wrong. About any of it.
That's why I'm actually following through this time instead of just dreaming about it.
Because I can't stand being the guy she described anymore.
The familiar Black Rose sign comes into view, and my stomach twists as I push through the door, but not from our usual banter. This is goodbye, and we both know it.
Brodie glances up from his station, dark hair falling in his eyes as he sets aside the sketch he's working on. "Thought you'd be at the hospital."
"Couldn't." The word scrapes out. "Feels wrong, you know? Running away to Boston while James is barely holding it together."
"That's not what you're doing." Brodie's fingers tap against his thigh. "Though maybe actually visiting him would help with the guilt."
"I tried." My voice cracks. "Got as far as the parking lot and cafeteria."
"Coward." The word lands without bite, just understanding from the guy who's been showing up every day while the rest of us fumbled through this crisis.
"Yeah, well." I sink into the chair opposite him, trying not to stare at the tattoo needle next to him. "Add it to my greatest hits album. Songs About Running Away When Shit Gets Real."
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. "Featuring your new single, 'I Ghosted My Best Friend in the Hospital'?"
"With bonus track, 'Can't Even Say Goodbye to the Girl I Love.'" The attempt at humor falls flat. "Though you probably heard all about that from Ivy already."
"Haven't really seen her. She's been with Daphne most days."
"Yeah." I study the fresh ink staining his fingers, easier than meeting his eyes.
"So, when's the Boston exodus happening?"
"Tonight."
"What did Greg say about it all?"
"That's the weird part." I shake my head, still amazed. "He actually hugged me. Like, a real hug, not one of those awkward man-pats. Said he was proud of me for taking the chance. We're not . . . fixed, exactly. But we're trying. Both of us."
He starts cleaning his station, methodical movements that have become as much ritual as necessity. "James would want you to go."
"Yeah, but—"
"No buts. You staying here won't fix him. Just like you avoiding Ivy won't fix what happened between you."
"I told her everything she needed to hear the other night."
"You mean when you word-vomited all your issues at the bowling alley?" His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Real romantic."
"Better than nothing."
"Is it?" He sets down the cleaning cloth with more force than necessary. "Because you're doing the same thing you always do. Running before anyone can see you're actually scared."
"I'm trying to do better."
"I know." His expression softens. "But part of doing better is actually saying goodbye properly. To both of them."
"I can't."
"So you're what? Going to fix yourself in Boston and come back some perfect version of Caleb Miller?"
"No, I just . . ." I shift my weight and crack my knuckles. "I need to learn how to show up for people. Really show up, not just when it's easy or fun, or doesn't require actual emotional intelligence."
"And Ivy?"
My chest tightens at her name. I know leaving without talking to her is completely shit.
I know she deserves better than me disappearing like a coward.
Ivy would probably call it emotional avoidance or some other therapy term she picked up from one of her self-help books.
It would be right, too. But the truth is, I can't look at her right now.
Not after she asked for boundaries. Not when she made it clear we're done.
I'd just make it worse. Say the wrong thing again.
"I'm not saying goodbye to her."
"Dumbass."
"Probably." I meet his eyes, hating myself for the choice I'm making. "Or maybe for once I'm being honest about not being ready. She deserves someone who knows how to love her properly, not someone who's still learning how to show up for himself."
"You love her though."
"Yeah." The word scrapes out. That's the worst part—I do love her. Love her enough to know I'd just hurt her again if I tried to fix this before fixing myself. "Which is exactly why I can't face her right now."
Brodie studies me for a long moment. "A month ago, you would've made a dick joke to avoid this entire conversation."
"Growth, right?" I try for a smile. "Though I did consider it. Multiple times."
"Progress, not perfection." He leans back in his chair. "So, what do you want me to tell her?"
"Just . . . goodbye, I guess. That I hope someday, when I've got my shit together, maybe . . ." I trail off, throat tight. "But I can't ask her to wait. That wouldn't be fair."
"No, it wouldn't." Brodie's voice is gentle. "I'm proud of you though. For finally facing your shit. For taking this chance. Even if your method of saying goodbye is still slightly chickenshit."
"Baby steps." I stand up. "Besides, some things need to stay broken for a while. Otherwise, you just keep patching them wrong."
"When did you get wise?"
"Probably around the time my best friend ended up in the hospital because none of us knew how to have real conversations." I swallow hard. "Speaking of . . . take care of him for me? I know you already are, but . . ."
"Always." Brodie stands, pulling me into a quick hug. "And hey, you can call too, you know. When it gets scary, or Boston feels too big, or you need someone to remind you why you're doing this."
"Even if it's the middle of the night?"
"Even then."
I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. "Hey, Brodie?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For putting up with my shit."
"Go, we'll all be here when you're ready to come home."
The bell chimes behind me, and the pressure I've been holding breaks, slipping free. It's not an ending, not really. More like a beginning. A chance to become someone worthy of the love I've been too scared to accept.