8. Callum
EIGHT
Callum
But your ghost keeps tearing them down
Chinatown
7:01 PM
The cool evening air smells like roasted chestnuts and soy sauce. I imagine this is the lingering aroma of Chinatown every evening at dinnertime.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, telling myself this is the last time. The last time I’ll walk these streets, hoping for a coincidence I know won’t happen.
Sienna might be at home, curled up on the couch with a book, or out with friends, laughing over cocktails in one of a million bars within a five-mile radius. Wherever she is, it’s not here. I know that. I know how ridiculous it is to think I might just run into her in one of the biggest cities in the United States.
But I have a rare evening with nothing to do or anyone that is expecting me somewhere. With idle time and my brain that won't stop, I can’t seem to help myself.
I pass the familiar glow of the restaurant’s red lanterns and slow down, peering through the window. The old man behind the bar glances up, and I swear I see the faintest twitch of a smirk.
He’s seen me three times this weekend, nursing a single beer for hours before leaving. He probably thinks I’m a weirdo—or worse, an undercover health inspector.
I glance down at my boots, about to keep walking, when the door swings open. I couldn't be more surprised if it was Bruce Springsteen himself walking out.
Sienna.
We nearly collide. She stops short when she sees me. Her face is just inches from mine and her eyes widen as recognition flashes across her features.
"Callum?"
I blink, frozen for half a second, trying to make my brain catch up with the moment. "Sienna. Hey."
Her name feels like glass in my throat—sharp and fragile all at once. She steps back, clutching a tote bag against her chest like a shield, and I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, unsure of what to do with them. Or what to say.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, her tone cautious but not cold.
Shit. Don’t blow this. I scramble for an answer that doesn’t make me sound like a stalker. "I was just… walking. Through the neighborhood. It’s a nice night."
Her brow furrows, her eyes narrowing slightly. "In Chinatown?"
"I like Chinatown," I offer lamely, my voice too quick, too defensive. "Good food. Cool vibe."
Her lips press together, and for a second, I think she’s going to call me out. But then her shoulders relax a fraction. "I was just dropping off some work stuff," she says, gesturing to the restaurant behind her. "This is Emma Chen’s family’s place. Do you remember her? From college?"
I nod automatically, even though the name didn’t click until I saw it on Instagram . "Yeah, Emma. Of course."
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push it. Instead, she glances back toward the restaurant, like she’s debating whether to escape back inside.
Don’t let her leave.
"So, uh…" My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to, and I clear my throat. "You want to grab a beer? With me? Just to—" I hesitate, searching her face. "Just to talk. If you want."
Her eyes narrow again, and for a second, I’m sure she’s going to say no. My pulse pounds in the silence between us, each second stretching out like a rubber band about to snap.
But then she tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble. Finally, she exhales. "I guess I could do that. My son is with his dad, so my night is wide open."
Her words hit me like a curveball I didn’t see coming. A son. Sienna has a kid.
I manage to nod, keeping my face neutral, but inside, my mind races. She’s a mom. Of course, she’s a mom. Sienna always had this wild, creative spark about her, like she could turn the most mundane moment into something colorful and alive.
What’s he like? Is he dreamy and imaginative, like her? Or does he have that rebellious streak she used to flash when someone told her to follow the rules? I can picture her chasing him around the park, laughing as he runs ahead, full of stories and ideas only she could understand.
And Sienna? I bet she’s the kind of mom who paints murals on the walls of his bedroom, who lets him stay up late to watch the stars, and who makes up adventures on the fly just to keep life interesting.
"Callum?" Her voice pulls me back to the moment, her eyes flicking toward me like she’s waiting for me to change my mind.
"Yeah," I say quickly, clearing my throat. "Great. Do you know any good places around here?"
"I thought you liked taking walks around Chinatown? I'm sure you know of somewhere better than I do."
Busted. Shit. "Oh, I'm just in town for work. I, um, let me Google somewhere. I'm sure there is a place around here. Hold on…"
She raises an eyebrow, like her bullshit meter is going off, but she doesn’t comment.
“There is a place around the corner called Basement. It is a speakeasy, so not too pretentious. She adjusts the strap of her bag and gestures for me to follow her.
Goddamn, I love it when she takes the lead.
Basement
45 Mott Street, Lower East Side
7:17 PM
The bar is quieter than I might have expected for a Sunday night. Its dim lighting throws soft shadows across the walls.
Sienna slips onto a stool at the far end, away from the other patrons, and I take the seat next to her, leaving just enough space that she doesn’t feel crowded. I am more nervous right now than I was when I signed with Pinnacle Records.
The bartender swings by, and asks us for our orders. I let her go first and take her cue. She orders a glass of wine—Cabernet, with no hesitation. I stick with a beer. We sit in silence for a moment, the air between us buzzing like an amplifier left on too long.
I clear my throat, turning slightly to face her. "I didn’t know it was you. I want you to know that."
Her glass stops halfway to her lips, and her eyes flick to mine. "At the gala?"
I nod, gripping my beer bottle a little tighter. "Yeah. If I’d known…" I trail off, shaking my head. "I would’ve said something."
She studies me for a beat. Her eyes narrow, as if weighing every word. Those hazel eyes of hers search my face for any hint of deception.
Her fingers trace the stem of her wine glass absently, and I find myself following the movement, anything to avoid the intensity of her gaze. Then, slowly, she nods.
"Hmm. If you say so," she says, but still not convinced. "Same. It was just... a weird coincidence, I guess." The way she says it lets me know she is trying.
"Yeah." I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. "One hell of a coincidence. I think that is why I was so speechless when I realized it at the café. Like, what are the odds?"
She takes a sip of her wine, her fingers curling around the glass like it’s a lifeline. "So, what were you doing there? At a fancy black-tie gala, of all places? Last I checked, you weren’t exactly the tuxedo type." I guess she isn't cutting me any slack. I wouldn't expect anything less from her.
I laugh softly, scratching the back of my neck. "I’m not. My label made me go. Some kind of networking thing. They said it was part of the deal, so…" I shrug. "I showed up, did my part, and then tried to disappear into the corners."
Her lips twitch, as if she’s suppressing a smile. "Disappearing didn’t work out so well for you."
"Apparently not." I grin, then tilt my head, studying her. "What about you? Fancy black-tie galas don’t exactly scream Sienna Hughey."
"Walker."
"Huh?" I asked, confused.
"My last name is Walker."
Oh, shit. She's married. Immediately I look down to her ring finger in search of a ring. Then I remember she said her son was with his father. What the fuck?! I feel like I am in the twilight zone right now. Shake it off…
Her expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across her face. "Brooke, my friend, dragged me," she says, snapping me out of my downward spiral.
I look at her with raised eyebrows, trying to keep up.
"It was her idea of a post-divorce celebration."
I blink, the word hitting me like a sudden chord change. Divorce. "Ahh. Okay. Post-divorce? You got married?"
Her brow furrows, and she leans back slightly. "Yeah. You remember Marcus Walker, right?"
I must have misheard her. "Marcus? Marcus… Marcus?" I never would have put her with douchebag Marcus Walker.
"Yes, Callum. Marcus Marcus," she says, her tone edged with a mix of amusement and irritation. "You knew him. He was my friend."
Friend. That word drops between us like a stone, and for a moment, all I can think about is Marcus standing stiffly in his khakis and polo shirts, always so annoyingly frat-boy-esque. "I didn’t realize…" I pause, the pieces struggling to fit together. "Were you two… I mean, back then?"
She shakes her head quickly. "No. God, no. We were just friends. Always."
I study her face, searching for any hint of something more, but she meets my gaze steadily. "I can’t picture it," I admit. "You and Marcus. It just… doesn’t make sense. I never would have thought…"
She lets out a soft laugh, and the sound is both bitter and self-deprecating. "You’re not wrong. Probably why it didn’t work. He’s… very structured. Very put together."
"Which is the opposite of you," I say without thinking, then wince. "I mean, in a good way. You’re… you."
She raises an eyebrow, but there’s a flicker of warmth in her expression. "Yeah, well. Turns out, that’s not what Marcus wanted. Or, rather, I should say, his vision of me is not what I wanted. Never mind, it's complicated."
The unspoken implication hangs in the air, and I get the sense there’s more to that story. But before I can push, she shifts the conversation.
"So, what about you?" she asks, her voice quieter now. "Why did you say you’d come back, and then… nothing? In Charleston, I mean, when you left for Nashville. No calls, no emails. Nothing."
My chest tightens. I admire her chutzpah to go straight for the jugular, even if it leaves me stunned for a moment. "Sienna, I tried. I called you. I texted and emailed. Hell, I even wrote a couple of letters. Eventually, I figured I was being a pathetic loser and decided you didn't want to hear from me."
Her brow furrows. "No, you didn’t. I didn’t get anything from you."
I sit up straighter, the frustration bubbling to the surface. "I did, Sienna. I swear I did. I thought you didn’t want to hear from me. That you’d moved on."
Her eyes flash with something between anger and disbelief. "I didn’t move on. I tried to reach you, too. I left messages. I emailed you."
"Nothing came through," I say, my voice rough. "Not a single thing."
She shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That doesn’t make sense."
"No, it doesn’t," I admit, my thoughts spinning. And then I remember something Luke said the other day, about Ethan trying to reach her, too, with no luck. "Ethan tried to get in touch with you, too."
Her head tilts slightly, her confusion deepening. "Ethan? When? I never talked to him again after the day you left."
"Back then. After I left. When we bumped into each other a couple of weeks ago he said he tried to reach out back then, but…" I trail off, my stomach twisting as realization begins to creep in. "Nothing."
Her fingers tighten around her glass and her knuckles turn white. "How could none of us connect? That doesn’t just… happen."
The silence stretches, heavy and loaded, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing: someone got in the way.
But who? And why?