Chapter 9
CHLOE
Callum is late.
Or maybe he’s just not coming. I’m not sure which one it is, but I am sure I don’t like the voices in my head telling me it’s the latter.
We agreed to meet at a shop called The Coffee Spot, which had rave reviews, but we haven’t spoken since. It’s odd, waiting for my husband like it’s a business meeting. It all feels so…cold. Definitely not like two people who have been married for almost a decade.
Sitting in my hotel room last night, knowing he was only a few minutes’ drive away, just about killed me. But he played a good game, one of the best I’ve seen from him in a while, outside of their game in Vegas last week, when he got the black eye that looks like it’s almost done healing.
Still, I wanted to be there for him. I was this close to buying a last-minute ticket, then I saw the price, checked my bank account, and laughed.
So I took my tablet and the bottle of wine Seattle Daily had sent “for my troubles” to the tub and settled in to watch the game.
The Serpents won, and it wasn’t by a small margin either.
5–1 was the final score, and Callum assisted on two of the goals.
I’m surprised my neighbor didn’t report me to the front desk for all the noise I made for each point he got.
I tap my fingers against my phone, which is sitting on the table in front of me, and check the clock for the umpteenth time: 2:10. Callum is officially ten minutes late. Five more minutes, Chloe, I tell myself. Give him five more minutes. If he doesn’t show, then you’ll have your answer.
Four minutes later, I see him running down the sidewalk, and a breath of relief whooshes out of me.
His long legs eat up the concrete, and that chain he’s taken to wearing in the last few years bounces beneath his shirt with every step.
Even mid-sprint, he looks good, and I briefly wonder if he spent as long as I did agonizing over what to wear.
It doesn’t look like it with his jeans and a simple light blue long-sleeved shirt.
He skids to a stop just before the door, and I smile as he runs a hand through his hair, pushing the pieces back into place as he stares at his reflection in the shop window. He’s nervous too, and something about that eases my own worries.
Finally, he pulls the door open, then walks in with that same swagger he used to have when he’d walk into class. He looks left, then right, and his eyes snag on mine.
Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.
I give him a small wave, and he makes his way over.
“Hey.” He pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Want a drink?”
“Sure,” I answer, rising from the table and not telling him I’ve already had one while waiting.
He motions for me to go ahead of him, and I can barely feel his fingers ghosting against my lower back as he follows behind me. It’s a small touch, but it feels bigger. It feels normal. Like it used to. I swallow down the emotions trying to claw their way up my throat and step up to the counter.
“Hi there.” A beautiful dark-haired barista smiles at me from behind the register. “Ready for another one?”
I glance over at Callum, but he doesn’t react to her words.
“Uh, yes, please. I’ll take a decaf this time, though.”
“Good call. Eight shots of espresso might be just a little too much.” She punches my order into the tablet, then looks at Callum. “And for you, Mr. Keller?”
Does she know him? Does he come here often? It’s a possibility since the shop is located smack between my hotel and his apartment.
“I’ll do a butter pecan Americano with half-and-half. And two muffins, please. One chocolate and one blueberry.”
I smile. He remembered.
I’ve always been a sucker for anything chocolate, and I’ve been eyeing those muffins since I first walked in, especially since I haven’t eaten anything today.
I’ve been too nervous to do so. I grab my card from my wallet, ready to hand it to the barista as she rattles off our order, but it’s snatched out of my hand before I even realize what’s happening.
“Hey!” I protest, glaring up at Callum.
He doesn’t spare a glance my way, instead handing his own card to the bubbly worker, who smiles through the whole interaction before returning the black card to my husband.
“I can buy my own stuff, you know,” I say once she’s busy grabbing our snacks.
“I know.”
“So then why didn’t you let me pay?”
“Because,” he says, shoving his wallet back into his pocket, “you’re still my wife, Chloe. You’ve never had to pay for anything before, and I’m not about to let you do it now.”
He says it so simply, like it makes all the sense in the world.
I want to tell him that’s a sexist way of thinking, but I’m too busy trying to get my heart to calm down.
You’re still my wife, Chloe. I haven’t felt like his wife in a long time, but hearing the words now doesn’t make me feel like that in the slightest.
We don’t speak again until we’re back at the table, our drinks and snacks sitting between us, Callum’s long legs barely fitting beneath the booth’s table.
“We can sit somewhere else if that works better for you.”
“I’m fine,” he says, though I know he’s full of shit as he shifts around, trying to get comfortable.
I let him have his lie, though. I’m too eager for my chocolate muffin.
Silence lingers between us as we both dive in, and the only sounds are our forks scraping against the plates and slurps from sipping on our hot drinks.
I would say it’s because I’m so into my meal, but that’s not true.
I don’t exactly know how to start this conversation we so desperately need to have.
But I guess Callum does, because he’s the first to speak.
“Sorry I was late.”
“It’s no problem. Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Just Percy being a pain in my ass. He has to take allergy meds, and he didn’t want to play nice this morning.” He holds up a tattooed hand—one I used to love watching trace over my body—and shows off a fresh scrape along the back of it. “For only having three legs, he’s still scrappy.”
“Something you two can bond over, I suppose.”
He pauses his fork mid-bite, tipping his head to the side in silent question.
“Because you fight a lot,” I explain.
A grin curves his lips as he settles back against the booth, chewing his food slowly before he says, “You still watching my games, Clover?”
I couldn’t hide the blush that creeps up my cheeks if I tried.
“Shut up,” I mutter, balling up my napkin and tossing it at him.
It bounces off his chest, falling into his lap. He makes no move to get rid of it. He just sits there staring at me.
“What?” I ask when I’m unable to take it any longer.
“Nothing. For a moment there, it felt like…”
He doesn’t finish his thought, but he doesn’t have to. I know what he was going to say: It felt like it used to. He’s right. It did. There was no awkwardness, no unresolved tension. It was just us.
I clear my throat, then take a sip of my coffee before setting it down. “I guess we should probably talk.”
He gives a wry laugh. “Probably.”
I shove my empty plate to the side and sit up a little straighter, pressing my shoulders back. I try to exude confidence even though I’m feeling anything but.
I’ve gotten good at faking it, though. I had to.
I had grand ideas of how my internship in London would go.
I would arrive in the UK, learn the public transportation system within a week at most, and make so many friends I could hardly keep up with my social calendar.
I would be a different person. I could be cool and confident, and I’d finally feel like I belonged.
None of that happened, and all it did was create a bigger divide between Callum and me any time we spoke.
He was still thriving without me while I was falling apart without him.
It made me wonder what I was doing with him in the first place, made me question whether he’d be further in his career if not for me holding him back.
Maybe he would already have a championship under his belt.
I know now how ridiculous I was for letting those thoughts creep in and plant roots, and what a mistake it was to water them. I wish I could take it all back, but what’s done is done, and what’s left are the consequences of it all.
Callum stacks his plate on top of mine, then takes a long pull from his butter pecan–flavored drink.
“How have you been?”
It’s such a simple question, and I could give him an equally simple answer, but I don’t think that’s what we need right now. We need honesty, so I give him mine.
“I’ve been better.”
His brows crush together. “What’s going on? Is that guy from the bar still bothering you?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just meant…” I release a shaky breath. “This is hard. Being here in Seattle, sitting here with you. Having coffee with you like we’re two old acquaintances. It’s just…hard.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, and even though it’s early January and still bone-numbingly cold outside, sweat peppers the back of my neck.
I try to ignore it as I force a laugh. “How have you been?”
He takes another sip from his coffee, then sets it to the side. He folds his hands together, leaning his elbows on the table as he sits forward. His honey eyes meet my own plain brown ones, and I almost forgot how intense they can be.
“Sitting across from you and not being able to kiss you is the second most difficult thing I’ve ever had to endure in my life, Clover.”
I’m almost positive I can guess what the first most difficult thing was.
“I’m not sure about us anymore. I think we should separate.”
Though I’m sure he wouldn’t believe me if I said so, that conversation pained me just as much as it did him. At the time, I believed it was for the best. Even though I’ve missed him more than I could explain, and despite it hurting him so much, I still think that.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Callum asks suddenly.