10. Callum
TEN
Callum
Your voice, your laugh, I hold them here
Monday, March 10
Electric Lady Studios
6:49 PM
The soundboard lights flicker as the final chord fades into silence. Max Greene, our producer, nods approvingly from behind the glass, his chair creaking as he leans forward. "That’s it, man. That’s the take."
I pull off my headphones, running a hand through my hair. "You sure? No notes?"
"Nope. That’s the one." Max grins. "Feels raw. Real. Exactly what we’re going for."
Mike and Jace slap my back as they file out of the booth. "Told you this track would hit," Jace says, tossing a water bottle at me. "You’re overthinking again, man."
I chuckle, cracking the bottle open. "Maybe."
Mike shakes his head, leaning against the console. "You killed it, dude. The whole album’s fire. Gonna be a fucking monster debut."
Their words settle over me, warm and affirming. I’ve spent so much of my life chasing this—pouring everything into the music, trying to prove I had what it takes. Now, with every finished track, it feels like I’m finally closing the gap between where I was and where I’ve always wanted to be.
"You guys wanna grab a beer?" Jace asks, stretching his arms overhead. "Celebrate a little?"
Mike nods. "Yeah, there’s that dive bar a few blocks over."
I hesitate, the exhaustion from the session catching up with me. "I might pass tonight," I say, leaning against the edge of the console. "But if I change my mind, I’ll text you. I just want to clear my head."
"You sure?" Jace gives me a pointed look. "You’ve been all work and no play lately."
I wave him off. "Go. I’ll catch up maybe."
The guys exchange glances but don’t push it. They grab their stuff and head for the door, leaving me alone in the studio. The quiet settles in, the faint hum of the equipment filling the space as I sink into one of the chairs.
It’s not that I don’t want to celebrate. I do. But the high from the recording session has already faded, leaving me with a restless energy I can’t quite shake. My mind drifts to Sienna, the way she looked at me last night, her eyes guarded but still... familiar.
Before I can stop myself, I pull out my phone. My fingers hover over her name for a second, and then I send a text:
Hey. Hope I’m not bothering you.
The reply comes quicker than I expected.
Depends. Are you about to ruin my quiet Monday evening?
I smirk, becoming one with the chair.
I wouldn’t dream of it. Just checking in. How’s your night?
A pause. Then the response I’m hanging on every breath for.
Uneventful. Yours?
Uneventful.
Thinking about grabbing coffee. Know any good places?
Her next message comes with an ellipsis first, like she’s typing and rethinking before she sends it.
Are you fishing for an invite, Callum?
I chuckle softly, shaking my head. She’s as sassy as ever. And I love it.
Maybe. Can I call?
A second passes, and then my phone buzzes with her response.
Sure.
I hit the call button before I can second-guess myself. Her voice comes through on the first ring, soft and familiar. "Hey."
"Hey," I say, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "So... about that coffee."
She laughs lightly, the sound warming something in my chest. "You’re persistent, I’ll give you that."
"Only when it’s worth it," I reply, the words slipping out before I can filter them.
There’s a pause, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far, but then she says, "I love Prospect Park. If you can meet me there in twenty minutes, I’ll let you buy me a coffee."
I glance at the clock on the studio wall and do a quick calculation. "I’m in Greenwich Village. If traffic’s not bad, I can make it."
She rattles off an address near one of the park’s monuments, and I commit it to memory. "Tell your driver to drop you there," she says. "You’ll see a path lined with benches. I’ll meet you by the first one."
"Got it," I say. "Twenty minutes."
We hang up, and I sit back, the restless energy shifting into something more focused. Excitement. Anticipation. Whatever this is with Sienna, it feels fragile but real, like a thread I’m desperate to hold on to.
I grab my jacket and head out, already texting my driver the address. Prospect Park. Twenty minutes. I’m not sure what I’ll say when I see her, but I know one thing for sure: I’m not letting this moment slip away.
Prospect Park
7:17 PM
The path to the monument is so dim that the park lights barely cut through the shadows. It’s quiet enough that my boots on the pavement sound too loud, almost like I don’t belong here. I'm not entirely sure I do.
The air’s got that bite to it—the kind that makes you regret not grabbing a warmer jacket—but at least it’s not freezing anymore. Winter’s hanging on by its fingernails, but spring’s trying to push it out.
I spot her before she sees me, leaning against one of the benches. Her hands are stuffed into the pockets of a sleek beige coat that hugs her frame just enough to remind me how small she is.
She’s wearing fitted jeans and boots. Her long dark hair is loose and falling in waves over her shoulders. The faint glow from the streetlights catches the green in her eyes when she glances toward the path, and for a second, I just stand there like an idiot, caught off guard by how effortlessly beautiful she looks.
There’s something about her posture—relaxed but not careless—that makes my chest tighten. She looks different, more mature maybe, but still Sienna. Still the same girl, a little more polished with longer hair, but possibly the only one who could stop me in my tracks without even trying.
Then her gaze lands on me, and a smirk tugs at her lips. "You planning to hover there all night, or are you going to say hi?"
"Hi," I say, striding toward her. "Happy?"
"Thrilled." She gestures toward the bench. "I figured I’d wait here in case you got lost. Didn’t want you wandering aimlessly through Brooklyn."
"Generous of you," I say, sitting beside her. "Although I wasn’t worried. You gave great directions."
"Good to know my talents extend to being a human GPS," she quips. Her tone is light, but her eyes seem to be searching. "So, what’s so urgent you had to haul yourself to Prospect Park on a Monday night?"
I rub the back of my neck, grinning. "Maybe I just like the company."
"Bullshit," she says with a laugh, shaking her head. "But fine, I’ll play along."
For a moment, we just sit there. The city sounds are distant and muted, like the park exists only in its own little bubble. She leans back on the bench, looking at me with an ease that wasn’t there before. It’s a small thing, but it feels big.
"So," she says, her voice softer now, "tell me about Nashville. What happened after you left? Since you ghosted me, I had to make up your prestigious music story."
I exhale slowly, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "It was far from prestigious. Nashville was... a shitshow, honestly. At first, anyway."
She tilts her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I say, the word heavy with all the memories it carries. "Remember Jake Morrison? The talent scout guy who showed up at The Royal American that night?"
She nods, her brow furrowing. "Oh, I'll never forget him. I loved him, for giving you a chance to live out your dream, and I hated him. He was the person who waltzed into my life and turned it upside down."
I let out a dry laugh. "That’s the one. He pretty much fucked both of us."
"You don't look like you're doing too bad to me. Sounds like you have a big album coming out. I saw you on the big screen at Times Square."
"Yeah, well let's just say that is in no part thanks to him. He convinced me to pack up my life and move to Nashville. Told me he’d get me in rooms with the right people and make me a star. Turns out, all he wanted was to bleed me dry."
Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt. She just watches me, her gaze steady, like she’s pulling the words out of me without even trying.
"I was green," I continue. "Didn’t know shit about contracts or the industry. He tied me up in deals that only benefited him, took a cut of everything I made, and when I didn't make it big, he dropped me. Like I was nothing."
Her jaw tightens, and she mutters, "Asshole."
"You’re not wrong," I say, smirking despite myself. "But I didn’t let him win. I was pissed, sure, but I wasn’t gonna crawl back to Charleston with my tail between my legs. Luke, my producer, someone I met while scraping by, helped me out. Found me gigs and got me through the worst of it. Eventually, he introduced me to someone at Pinnacle Records."
"And now you’re signed?" she asks, her voice softening again.
"Yeah," I say, leaning back against the bench. "Two years of jumping through hoops and selling my soul to the devil, and it finally happened. The day of the gala, actually."
Her brows lift. "Seriously? That's the day you signed?"
"Yep. Met with the big guy that afternoon. My label wanted me to show up at the gala as part of their ‘welcome to the family’ thing." I glance at her, a grin tugging at my lips. "Guess it worked out, huh?"
She laughs. It’s a genuine, warm sound that makes the cold air feel less biting. "I’d say so."
For a moment, we just look at each other, and it’s easy—like we’re slipping back into something familiar without even trying. But then her gaze falters, and I can see the wheels turning in her head.
"What?" I ask, nudging her arm lightly.
"Nothing," she says quickly, then hesitates. "It’s just… you’ve been through a lot."
I shrug. "So have you. Bet you’ve got some stories, too."
She exhales, her breath visible in the cool night air. "Yeah. I do."
I want to ask. I want to know everything—how she ended up with Marcus, what brought her to New York, what the hell her life has been like since I left. But I hold back. It doesn’t feel like the right time, and I don’t want to push her.
Instead, I nudge her again, trying to lighten the mood. "What about you? You’re living in Brooklyn now, huh? It’s a long way from Charleston, SC, and Savannah, GA. How’s the artsy city life treating you?"
With a snort and a shake of her head, she tosses her dark mane of hair. "It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. But... I like it. It’s good for my son, and I’ve found my rhythm here. It’s home."
There’s something in the way she says it—simple but proud—that makes me smile. "Good," I say. "You deserve that."
She glances at me, her expression softening. "Thanks."
Her words settle in my chest, warm and solid, and for a second, I can’t look away. She notices, of course. She always notices.
"What?" she asks, her voice dipping just enough to make my pulse pick up.
"Nothing," I say, though it’s not nothing. It’s everything. It’s her standing here with me, looking at me like she still knows me, even after all this time.
She looks away first, her cheeks coloring faintly in the cool night air. "You’re staring," she says, a touch of that dry humor slipping back into her tone.
"Can you blame me?" I reply, a grin tugging at my lips. "I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you’re here. That we’re here, together."
She stops walking, turning to face me fully. "Feels weird, doesn’t it? Like... after everything, we’re just supposed to pick up where we left off?"
"No," I say, stepping closer, careful but deliberate. "Not pick up where we left off. Just... start something new."
Her breath catches slightly, just enough for me to notice, and I take another step, closing the space between us. My hands stay in my pockets—I’m not pushing this too far, not risking the ground we’ve gained—but I can’t stop the pull I feel toward her.
"Sienna," I say softly, my voice dipping lower. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
She doesn’t. Instead, she looks up at me, her eyes searching mine, and I see something shift there—something open, unguarded. Her lips part, just barely, and that’s all the permission I need.
I lean in, slow enough to give her time to change her mind, but when my mouth brushes hers, she doesn’t pull away. She leans into it. Her hands find my jacket as her fingers curl into the fabric like she’s steadying herself.
The kiss starts soft, almost tentative, but it doesn’t stay that way. There’s too much history between us, too much unsaid, and it spills over like a dam breaking. My hands finally leave my pockets and find her waist. With authority, I pull her closer. She tastes like mint and wine, and when her fingers slide up to the back of my neck, I’m done for.
I don’t know how long we stand there, lost in each other, but when we finally break apart, we’re both breathing harder, the air between us charged. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed, and I’m pretty sure I look just as wrecked.
"Sienna," I start, but she shakes her head, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips.
"Don’t," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not yet."
I nod, swallowing hard, and take a step back, my hands falling away. "Okay."
"I better go," she says, and my heart breaks all over again. I don't want to push, so I don't argue. I'm hoping she thinks better of it.
Instead, she grabs my hand and gives it a light squeeze before turning on her heel and walking away. Our hands stay linked until our arms can't stretch any further.
And just like that, she's gone.