4. Callum
FOUR
Callum
But your shadow lingers on my floor
Monday, February 17
Needle & Bean
285 W 4th Street, West Village
2:21 PM
"Don't play stupid, kid. You signed away more than some piddly songs in Nashville."
Morrison's voice crackles through my phone as I push through the door of the vintage vinyl store that doubles as a café. It’s so West Village. The blast of warm air and coffee smell hits me, but my stomach's too knotted to appreciate it.
"Those rights were mine the minute you signed. Everything you wrote. Everything you will write. You think Pinnacle's gonna want damaged goods?"
"That contract was predatory and you know it." I keep my voice low, nodding thanks to the barista as I order black coffee. Vinyl records line the exposed brick walls, their covers telling stories of other artists who probably had this same conversation.
"Predatory?" Morrison laughs. "I gave you exactly what you wanted. A ticket out of Charleston. A chance at the big time. Not my fault you didn't read the fine print."
"I was twenty-one."
"Old enough to know better. Old enough to leave that girl behind for a shot at fame." His words hit like a punch to the gut. "Now look at you. About to be somebody. Shame if Pinnacle found out their new golden boy doesn't even own his own songs."
I drop into a worn leather armchair in the corner. "What do you want?"
"Now we're talking business. I want fifty percent of your Pinnacle deal. Straight off the top."
"That's insane."
"Maybe. But that's what owning your entire catalog is worth to me. Unless..." He lets the word hang there. "You want me to make some calls? Let everyone know the truth about Nashville's almost-was who?—"
I end the call. My hands shake as I set the phone face-down on the table.
Fucking Morrison. Fucking Nashville. Fucking fine print I was too naive to understand.
The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain. It's better than remembering how I played right into his hands. Better than remembering what—who—I left behind to chase this dream.
I pull out my notebook, trying to focus on the new track Pinnacle wants. Something commercial. Something safe. Everything my music used to not be.
That's when I see her.
Auburn hair catching the afternoon sun as she thumbs through her phone at a table by herself. The same shade that's been haunting me since the masquerade. But it can't be?—
She looks up when the barista yells the name, "Sienna."
My heart stops.
2:44 PM
The world stops spinning for one endless moment. She hasn't seen me yet. She grabs her coffee off of the counter and keeps her eyes down, still captivated by whatever it is she is reading on her phone.
But this isn't the girl I left in Charleston.
Gone is the pixie haircut she used to dye a different color every month. Instead, dark auburn waves fall past her shoulders. Her old band t-shirts have been replaced by a sleek blazer. Everything about her screams polished and controlled—nothing like the wild girl who used to dance on bar tops.
It hits me like a tidal wave. Is she, was she…? The masked girl from the gala?
My coffee cup hits the table too hard. It can't be. What would Sienna have been doing at a high-society masquerade? She used to mock those exact kinds of parties.
But those lips. The way they felt against mine in the dark sidebar. It had felt so familiar, like muscle memory.
Then she looks up. Our eyes lock immediately, like her soul recognizes me before her brain understands who she sees.
The mug freezes halfway to her lips. I see it click the moment her eyes widen with recognition. Then, they narrow with something else.
Hate.
She's up and moving before I know what to say or do. Even the way she moves is different—deliberate, contained. The Sienna I knew was all restless energy and impulsive gestures.
"Sienna." Her name tastes rusty in my mouth after so long.
She doesn't slow down. Doesn't look back.
"Sienna, wait." I'm on my feet now, but she's already at the door. "Please."
That stops her. She turns slowly, and the look on her face makes Morrison's threats feel like a paper cut.
"Please?" Her voice is ice. Nothing like the soft sounds she made against my lips in that alcove. "You want to talk now? After six years of silence? After ignoring me for weeks after you left with a promise to come back?"
The handful of customers in Needle & Bean are suddenly very interested in their coffees. A record scratches on the turntable and the irony of the timing isn't lost on me.
"I tried—" But the words die in my throat. Did I not try hard enough? Should I have moved the earth to reach her…to make sure she knew I left for her, not to get away from her?
I was so scared to hold her back or bring her down that I figured her non-response was for the best. It didn't make it any easier, but it helped me justify that it was for the best.
"Save it for your songs." She pushes through the door.
I follow her onto the sidewalk. The brisk February wind whips her hair—that familiar shade that's been haunting my dreams since the masquerade. My hand flexes, remembering how the silk of her dress felt under my fingers in that alcove.
She spins to face me, probably to tell me to leave her alone, but then freezes. Her eyes catch on my hands, on my tattoo peeking out from my sleeve.
Horror dawns on her face as recognition hits.
"That was you?" The words come out in barely a whisper.
I stand there, frozen, unable to say anything. My body feels detached from my head. It’s almost as if this is happening to someone else, and I’m standing back and watching. Seeing her again is surreal and almost too much to comprehend.
The color drains from her face. "You knew." Her hands clench at her sides. "At the masquerade. You knew it was me."
"What? No, I?—"
"So what was this? Some sick game?" Her voice shakes. "Let me guess—you saw me come in, and thought it would be fun to mess with the girl you ghosted?"
"Sienna, I swear?—"
"Don't." She takes a step back. "Six years, nothing, and then you kiss me without being honest at some masquerade? Did you have a good laugh about it later? I bet that was a good one."
A couple passing by slows down, curious about our sidewalk drama. Sienna notices and straightens her blazer, pulling that controlled mask back on. The one that makes her look like a stranger.
"You know what?" Her voice is eerily calm now. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters. You made your choice when you made me an empty promise and left me in Charleston. You're a worthless piece of shit. Glad you made it."
She turns to leave, but I catch her arm before I can stop myself. "I didn't know it was you. How could I? I never expected to see you there, at a party in New York."
"Let go of me." Ice drips from every word.
I drop my hand like it burns, afraid of the fire in her eyes. "I tried to reach you. After Charleston. I called, I wrote?—"
"Lying then, lying now." She backs away. "At least you're consistent. I hate you!"
A taxi pulls up to the curb. She's in it before I can blink and then she’s gone. As quickly as she reappeared, she disappeared, leaving only a hint of her perfume. That and the ice from her eyes stay with me.
I watch the yellow cab disappear into traffic as my mind spins. She's here. In New York. Not in Charleston where I left her.
Different style. Different life.
Does she live here? She must, why else would she be here? In a city of well over eight million people, how could we run into each other?
So many questions.
My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out to see it’s Luke.
"Where are you? We need to finish that track today."
"I just saw Sienna."
Silence on the other end. Then, "Shit."
"Yeah."
"The one from Charleston?"
I lean against the brick wall of Needle & Bean, letting my head fall back. "She was at the masquerade, Luke. She was the woman in green."
More silence. "That's... really fucked up."
"She said I never tried to reach her." The pieces aren't fitting. "But I did. For months. Letters, calls. I have to make her know the truth."
"Callum." Luke's voice carries a warning. "Whatever you're thinking, don't. Morrison's breathing down our necks. You need to stay focused on what we are doing here and now. Don't fuck this up over some wild goose chase. She is your past. Focus on the future."
But I'm already pulling up Emma Chen's Instagram on my phone. Emma. Sienna's best friend from college. The quiet art major who'd roll her eyes at our drama but always had Sienna's back. Her family owns that Chinese restaurant in Manhattan—Golden Dragon. That must be the connection, how Sienna ended up here.
Emma's profile is public. Recent photos show her painting murals at some elementary school, shots of downtown streets, and food from her family's restaurant.
Then I see it—a photo from three weeks ago. Emma and Sienna, wine glasses raised, the caption reading, "Nothing better than helping your bestie start fresh. #Brooklyn #NewBeginnings"
Start fresh? Is a move to New York her fresh start?
I scroll further, but there's nothing else with Sienna. Just like her to stay off social media. But something about this doesn't add up. Sure, maybe I gave up too easily back then. Let her silence convince me she'd moved on. But to say I never tried to reach her at all?
"I'll be at the studio in twenty."
I end the call, but I can't move. Not yet.
Because now I know two things for certain:
One: Sienna Hughey is in New York.
And two: Someone made damn sure we stayed apart six years ago.