5. Sienna
FIVE
Sienna
I see you there, you’re miles away
PS 124 Yung Wing School
40 Division Street, Chinatown
3:37 PM
I burst through the door of Emma's classroom, my hands still shaking. Paint-splattered tables and bright student artwork blur past as I pace between the desks.
"Please tell me you don't have a parent meeting."
Emma looks up from her laptop, glasses sliding down her nose. "Canceled. The kid has strep." She takes one look at my face and closes her computer. "What are you doing here? Are you okay?"
"Callum."
The name hangs in the air between us. Emma's eyes go wide behind her frames.
"What do you mean, 'Callum?'"
"I just saw him. At some coffee shop in the Village." My voice sounds strange and distant, even to myself. "He's... here. In New York. Emma, I just fucking saw Callum Reid for the first time in six years and my world is spinning."
"What?" Emma stands, knocking over a jar of paintbrushes. "Obviously I saw that TikTok about his record deal. The one I sent you. But he's actually here, in New York?"
I grip the edge of a small desk painted with rainbow handprints. "Worse. Remember the guy who kissed me at the masquerade?"
"No." Emma freezes halfway through picking up the brushes. "The mystery man in the mask was Callum? Our Callum?"
"Not ours any more." My laugh comes out hollow. "Callum with his new tattoos and his fancy record deal and his..." I can't finish.
Emma straightens slowly, processing. A half-finished mural of a dragon curves around her classroom walls, watching us with knowing eyes.
"Sit." She pulls up two tiny chairs meant for first graders. "Start from the beginning."
"I can't sit." My heels click against the linoleum as I pace. "I can't... I decided to grab a coffee since Marcus was picking Ollie up today and I just ran into him. Just like that. After six years of nothing. And there he was. Oh, my God, Emma. What the fuck?!"
"What were you even doing in the Village?"
"Helping Brooke pack up her ex's vinyl collection." My throat tightens at the irony. "She finally decided to mail it back to him. I had just left her place and decided to grab a coffee before getting on the subway. The universe has a sick sense of humor."
Emma watches me wear a path on her classroom floor. "Tell me exactly what happened."
"I was just standing there, reading, and suddenly I felt someone staring." I close my eyes, remembering. "When I looked up, there he was. Different. His hair's darker now, shorter. And the tattoos. God, the tattoos."
"How did you even recognize him?" Emma's voice is gentle.
"His voice, first. I would know that deep baritone anywhere." I wrap my arms around myself. "Everything else about him is different, but those eyes... How I didn't fully recognize them Friday night, I don't know. I think his whole package looks different: the clothes, the hair, the tattoos. I never expected it would be Callum, he wasn’t even on my radar."
"Sienna, I'm dying. I don't even know how to respond. What did he say?"
"He tried to talk to me like we were old friends just running into each other."
"And you poked his eyes out?"
I laugh, but it isn't a joyful laugh. "I wanted to. I've never felt so much rage as I did when I realized it was him. It was like I was getting punked and everyone was in on the joke but me."
"Do you think he knew it was you when he kissed you Friday night?" Emma's voice is gentle, but I still flinch.
"Of course he did! He had to know it was me." The words taste bitter. "How could he not have recognized me?"
"Si." Emma stands, blocking my path. "The girl he knew had short hair she dyed pink and yellow and purple. She wore combat boots and torn jeans. You're..." She gestures at my blazer and my heels. "You went from Punky Brewster to Gossip Girl."
"But—"
"And you didn't recognize him either." She raises an eyebrow. "The Callum Reid you knew wouldn't be caught dead in a tux. Wouldn't have tattoos or a record deal or?—"
"Stop being logical." My pacing slows as I take in Emma's classroom. A wall of windows overlooks Division Street, where vendors are setting up for the afternoon rush. It’s one street over from where her parents' restaurant has been feeding the neighborhood for thirty years. "I'm trying to be angry here."
"You can be angry." Emma perches on one of the paint-splattered tables. "You have every right to be after he ghosted you. But you can also be honest. Did he seem like he knew it was you at the masquerade?"
I sink into a tiny chair, my knees practically at my chest. Around me, first-grade artwork tells stories of dragons and dreams. Stories that are a lot more simple than mine.
"No." The admission hurts. "You should have seen his face when he realized. But that almost makes it worse."
"How?"
"Because." I stare at my hands, remembering how they felt tracing his tattoos through his shirt. "Because I was attracted to him. Again. Without even knowing it was him. What does that say about me? Fuck. I have the worst picker."
"That you have a type?" Emma's attempt at humor falls flat. "Or maybe that there was something real there. Before Nashville. Before everything."
Before Marcus. Before Ollie. Before he left me like discarded trash.
My stomach drops. "Oh god."
"What?"
"He's here, Em. In New York. Making music. About to be famous if that TikTok is any indication." The reality crashes over me. "Before I could lock him away in a box far away from me. But if he is famous, on the radio, a rock superstar, I'll never be able to escape him."
"Yes, you can. You can do this. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Right now, we need to figure out what you will do if you'll do anything at all. Breathe."
Thursday, March 6
PS 321 William Penn
7th Avenue, Park Slope
6:16 PM
The industrial lights of the elementary school auditorium hum overhead as parents shuffle into metal folding chairs. My program crinkles in my hands. "Spring Music Showcase" is printed in Comic Sans across the top.
Marcus sits three rows ahead. His suit is probably worth more than my monthly rent. He's been checking his phone every thirty seconds since I walked in. Probably documenting my four-minute tardiness for his lawyer, or researching another reason why Ollie needs to transfer to that prestigious private school in TriBeCa.
"Mommy!"
Ollie's head pokes out from behind the stage curtain, his dinosaur bow tie crooked. I give him a thumbs up, but before I can fix the tie, his music teacher shuffles him back into place.
"He looks nervous." Marcus materializes beside me, making me jump. His cologne, the same one he's worn since college, fills my nostrils and makes me want to gag. "Maybe if he'd stuck with the classical lessons I recommended…"
"He's five, Marcus. Let him play what makes him happy."
"Yes, well." He smooths his tie. "Happiness doesn't build discipline."
The lights dim and Marcus returns to his seat, but not before glancing at his phone again. His shoulders are tight under his jacket, the way they get when he's about to lose a case.
Something's off. He's been wound tight since the divorce was finalized, but this is different. Whenever I try to talk about enrolling him in some extracurricular classes, he gets all huffy and shuts me down. It seems like he doesn’t want Ollie to become anything other than his own personal mini-me. Brooke says it's his way of continuing to control me.
The curtain rises. Twenty kindergarteners sit at keyboards and my heart swells. Ollie is smack dab in the middle. His red bow tie glows under the stage lights.
When he starts playing, everything else fades. His small fingers find the keys like they were born to. Like music lives in his blood.
Marcus shifts in his seat.
The other children plunk out "Twinkle, Twinkle" with careful concentration. But Ollie's adding extra notes, finding harmonies that weren't taught. His teacher beams from the side of the stage.
I glance over at his father, expecting to see him beaming, too. Instead, he has his face buried in his damn phone. His jaw clenches as he scrolls.
What in the hell?
At least Margaret is focused and smiling.
The piece ends. Parents applaud. As the next group takes their places, Ollie bounces off stage and makes a beeline for me, but Marcus intercepts him. He kneels in front of him to get at his eye level.
"That was so great, Buddy." Marcus straightens Ollie's bow tie with precise movements. "Did you go off script? Sometimes it looked like you were doing your own thing up there."
God, he is even an asshole to his son. I'm going to lose my shit if he takes away his pride in his performance.
Ollie's face falls. "Miss Robinson says being creative is good."
Atta boy, I want to say. But I stay quiet and let them have their moment. I’ll make sure to encourage him on our walk home. I'm so proud of him for standing up to his father. He will have to have that confidence growing up in his shadow.
"Miss Robinson teaches art, not music." Marcus's tone carries that lawyer's edge. "Speaking of school, I've been thinking more about Trinity Prep. Their music program is exceptional. Very structured." He looks up at me when he says it.
There it is. The real reason he's here—another push for private school.
"Daddy, can I show Mommy my drawing from art class?"
"Of course." Marcus's smile doesn't reach his eyes. He glances at his phone one more time before letting Ollie lead me toward his classroom.
"Did you see?" Ollie skips ahead of us. "I made up my own parts! Miss Robinson says I have a special ear. My ear looks normal to me, but she says I am really good."
"I did." My throat tightens watching him. So much joy, so much natural talent. "You were amazing. And I absolutely love that you go off script," I say quietly for his special ears only. I stop short of suggesting he dye his hair purple.
"Never stop doing that, do you hear me? You and your ears are special!"
Marcus clears his throat behind us. Unfortunately, we didn't lose him. "About Trinity?—"
"Not now, Marcus."
"The application deadline?—"
"Marcus." I stop walking. "Can we just let him have this moment? Without turning it into another custody negotiation?"
His phone buzzes again. Whatever he sees makes him pale slightly. I don’t even know why he’s here. He is more interested in whatever he sees on his phone than his son.
"Mommy, look!" Ollie tugs me toward his classroom, past walls lined with student artwork. "Miss Robinson taught me how to draw a guitar!"
Sure enough, there's a surprisingly detailed electric guitar rendered in crayon, complete with strings and pickups. Something twists in my stomach. Ever since seeing Callum two weeks ago, every little reminder feels like a punch to the gut.
"That's really good, sweet boy." I force a smile. "Maybe we can get you some guitar lessons?—"
"No." Marcus's voice cuts through the hallway. A passing teacher startles. "He needs to focus on piano. Classical training builds a proper foundation."
"Why does it feel like no matter what he wants you have to say no and present your own ideas?" The words slip out before I can stop them. He is a child, for Christ's sake. It was one thing that he constantly did it to me, but I can't stand by and watch him do the same to Ollie.
Marcus's phone buzzes again. I can see that he wants to look at it but he resists to make sure he keeps the upper hand with me. "Maybe it's because I'm the only one who thinks through things, instead of jumping from one thing to another."
"He's five, Marcus. That's what kids do. That's how they figure out who they are."
"Exactly. The right time to build proper habits." He straightens his tie. "Trinity's headmaster mentioned their junior orchestra program. Very selective. Very... appropriate influences."
Ollie's drawing forgotten, he tugs on Marcus’ sleeve. "But Daddy, all my friends don't go to that school."
"That's enough." Marcus's voice carries an edge I've never heard before. Ollie shrinks back against me.
"Okay." I gather Ollie close. "I think it's time to go home."
"The Trinity discussion isn't over."
"It is for tonight." I scoop up Ollie's backpack. "Say goodbye to Daddy. Tell him you will see him on Sunday."
As we walk toward the subway, Ollie's small hand in mine, I can't shake the feeling that something's shifted. Marcus has always been controlling, but this feels different. Like he's not just trying to control our present anymore.