13. Sienna
THIRTEEN
Sienna
The truth unveiled, the light breaks in
Boucherie West Village
99 7th Avenue S
Tuesday, March 11
1:53 PM
The teapot between us whistles softly, the steam curling upward like a lazy dancer. I reach for the handle, pouring into the delicate porcelain cups Brooke insisted on ordering.
The vibe at Boucherie is classic and cozy—French bistro meets old New York—with soft jazz playing in the background and the faint hum of conversation filling the air.
Brooke sits across from me with her tweed blazer thrown over the back of her chair like a royal equestrian. Her long, thick hair is swept into a sleek ponytail and she every bit fits the part of a blue-blood aristocrat. Meanwhile, I’m in jeans and a sweater, feeling distinctly Brooklyn.
"So," Brooke says, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand. "Tell me about the meeting. I'm so excited for you! This is really happening."
I grin despite myself, grateful for the change of subject. "It went great. Golden Dragon referred me to a boutique that imports specialty teas and herbs. They loved the mock-ups I did for their signage, and they want to move forward. It’s a big job, Brooke—like, big. "
Her smile spreads wide, genuine pride lighting up her face. "Look at you, boss lady. You’re building an empire one sign at a time. And you didn't have to take a dime from your ex. You're such a badass."
"Hardly an empire," I say, taking a sip of tea. "And definitely not a badass. But it feels good. Like maybe I really can do this again."
Brooke narrows her eyes at me, playful but serious. " Maybe ? Babe, you are doing it. Don’t sell yourself short."
I roll my eyes, but her words hit in that soft, uncomfortable spot where compliments rarely land. She’s right, though. I’m doing it—getting my life back together piece by piece. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine.
"And speaking of getting your life together..." Brooke tilts her head, a wicked gleam in her eye. "How’s Callum? Emma told me you've seen him again. I can't believe I have to hear it from someone else."
The tea almost goes down the wrong pipe. "What? I mean, it's nothing. We ran into each other in Chinatown on Sunday when I was dropping off the signs."
I told Emma I bumped into him leaving the Golden Dragon, but that is all I told her. How did she, and especially Brooke, deduce anything from that? Emma certainly didn't pry. Shit.
"Don’t play coy," she says, waving a hand. "You’ve got that post-sex glow, Sienna. I can read it a mile away."
Heat rushes to my face, and I avoid her gaze, stirring my tea unnecessarily. "I don’t have a glow."
"Oh, you absolutely have a glow. So, out with it. Was it as amazing as you remembered?"
"It wasn’t—" I stop myself because there’s no point in denying it. Brooke sees through everything. "It was... amazing."
Her grin spreads like a cat who just caught the canary. "I knew it! Tell me everything."
I groan, but it’s half-hearted. She won’t let this go, and part of me wants to talk about it. To make sense of it. Even if I know it's wrong and probably a disaster in the making. "It just... happened. I didn’t plan it, obviously. We were walking back from the park, and then?—"
"And then he rocked your world," Brooke interrupts, laughing like a schoolgirl.
I laugh, shaking my head. "Yes, okay? It was incredible. But also confusing."
"Confusing how?" she asks, her tone shifting to something more thoughtful. "It’s Callum. You’ve been dreaming about him for years. You're post-divorce. Remember, we are doing it, following our g-spots, not analyzing it."
"Exactly," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I’ve secretly thought about him, yearned for him. And I've hated him. And resented him for... everything. For leaving. For not being there. For?—"
"For breaking your heart," Brooke finishes gently.
I nod, the lump in my throat catching me off guard. "Yeah. And Sunday night was so... intense. It felt natural, like no time had passed, but at the same time, it scares the hell out of me. I can’t tell if it’s nostalgia or something real."
Brooke’s quiet for a beat, studying me like she’s trying to decide how hard to push. "Did he say anything about why he left? About why he didn’t come back?"
"He said he tried," I admit, my voice tight. "That he called, texted, even wrote letters, but I never got any of it.”
“What? How?”
“He got a new number when he moved to Nashville, so it makes sense he never got my calls and texts. But it still seems odd. I really believe he supposedly did all of that, and somehow, it all got lost in the ether. It’s... a lot to believe."
“So, you don’t believe him?" she asks, her brow furrowing.
"I don’t know," I say honestly. "Part of me wants to. It would make some of the pain subside, you know? Like maybe he didn’t just abandon me. But another part of me keeps thinking... what if he’s lying? What if he just didn’t care enough to try harder? And now he is saying whatever he needs to make amends."
Brooke leans back, crossing her arms. "Did he seem like he was lying?"
I hesitate. "No. He seemed honest, I guess. Like I said, our time together—on the walk and in bed—was perfect. It was so easy. But then the next morning?—"
"What happened the next morning?" she presses. "This was Sunday night, so are we talking about yesterday?"
I sigh, the memory still fresh and raw. "Yes. He got a text. It woke him up, and he left in a rush. He said it was work, but he seemed... panicked. And the Callum I knew couldn’t have cared less about a meeting."
Brooke raises an eyebrow. "You think it was a woman."
"I don’t know," I admit, my chest tightening. "It just felt... off. Like there’s something he’s not telling me. And after everything, how am I supposed to trust him? Opening myself up to him again... it’s terrifying. Not just for me, but for Ollie. I can’t let him hurt us."
Brooke reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. "Sienna, you’re allowed to protect yourself. And Ollie. But you’re also allowed to want something for yourself. You deserve to be happy, babe. Whatever that looks like."
Her words linger in the air between us, hitting nerves that are raw and over-exposed. I stir my tea, watching the ripples spread and disappear. What am I going to do? About Callum, about Ollie, about building my new life?
I take a breath, but it feels too shallow to give me enough oxygen. Maybe it’s not about being brave enough to jump—maybe it’s about knowing when to hold on and when to let go. And right now, I don’t know what to do when it comes to Callum.
7:07 PM
The phone buzzes on the counter, and I glance at the screen. My stomach twists at the name that pops up. Callum.
It’s just a text—short, casual, with no allusion to the fact that he said he would call me, but it’s been over twenty-four hours since he sprinted out of my bed.
Hey. Been thinking about you. When can I see you again?
I grip the phone tighter, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’s been thinking about me? That’s rich. Probably between "meetings," or whoever else he’s juggling in this city.
He's on the cusp of being a very famous and wealthy rockstar. Of course, he has several women, I'm sure.
I start typing before I can stop myself.
You’ve been thinking about me for over a day? Must’ve been some meeting.
The reply comes fast, like he was waiting for me to bite.
It’s been a crazy couple of days. I’m sorry. I figured you were busy, too, with the new job you were working on. But, it's true. I haven't stopped thinking about you.
My pulse kicks up, but I push it back down, locking it away. I can’t afford to get swept up in him again. I glance toward the living room where Ollie’s sitting on the floor with his Legos, humming the tune from his kindergarten musical last week. I love that he brings his own joy.
No. I have my son tonight.
This time, it takes him longer to reply. When he does, it’s a phone call instead of a text. I stare at the screen for a second before picking up. "Callum."
"Hey." His voice is soft, almost cautious. "I get it, Sienna. You’ve got Ollie. I just—can we talk? Tomorrow? After you drop him at school? I just want to see you again."
I hesitate, chewing my bottom lip. "Why now, Callum? Why not yesterday? Or this morning?"
He exhales, the frustration clear even through the phone. "Because I thought you might need space after... everything. And yeah, I’ve had a lot on my plate. But looking back, I should’ve reached out sooner. That’s on me. Will you forgive me?"
The rawness in his tone tugs at something in me, something I’ve been trying to keep locked up since Sunday night. I chew on my bottom lip, staring at the grain of the table in front of me. "I just... I don’t know, Callum. This feels... complicated. Like maybe it’s too much."
"What do you mean?" he asks, his voice quieter now, as if he’s bracing himself.
I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. "I mean... life’s not the same as it was back then. It’s not just me anymore. I have Ollie to think about, and... everything else. And you—" I stop short, shaking my head. "You’ve got your career, your whole world in Nashville. I don’t even know if this is real or just... sentimentality."
There’s a pause, just long enough to make my chest tighten. When he finally speaks, his voice is low but steady. "I get it. Things are different. We’re different. But that doesn’t mean this has to be nothing."
His words land like a stone in my stomach, heavy and confusing. I close my eyes, willing myself to stay grounded. "I’m not saying it’s nothing. I just... I don’t know if it’s something we can hold on to. It’s been so long, Callum. Maybe it's best to leave well enough alone."
He doesn’t respond right away, and the silence stretches just long enough to make me wonder if I’ve hit too hard. But then he exhales, a sound that feels heavy with everything he’s not saying. "Maybe. Or maybe it’s more than that, and we’re just too scared to find out."
The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable, until Callum finally speaks. "Look, I get it. I really do. Things are complicated, and maybe this is all just... too much right now. But you said something the other night—about how you’ve wondered all these years why it ended the way it did. I know I can’t fix the past, but I’d like the chance to show you who I am now."
My throat tightens, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the shield I’ve tried to hold up. "I don’t know if that changes anything."
"Maybe not," he says, his tone soft but insistent. "But... come to the studio tomorrow. We’re starting early at eight, wrapping up a track with Finley James. I know how much you loved her music back in college. I thought... maybe you’d want to see how it all works."
The words hit me like a gut punch, tugging at memories I’ve tried to forget. Finley James—the artist whose songs I used to play on a loop, whose lyrics felt like they’d been written just for me. I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. "Callum, I don’t think?—"
"It’s not about me," he cuts in gently. "It’s about you. And maybe it’s stupid, but I thought you’d want to see something you’ve always loved up close."
I hesitate, my grip on the phone tightening. He’s giving me an out, a reason to see him that doesn’t feel like a trap. And damn it, part of me wants to take it. I shouldn’t, but...
"Fine," I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel. "Tomorrow. After I drop Ollie off at school."
He exhales, and I swear I can hear the tension leave his body. "Thank you. I’ll text you the address."
I hang up before I can second-guess myself, setting the phone down on the counter. Across the room, Ollie looks up from his Legos and smiles, oblivious to the mess inside my head.
This is probably a terrible idea. But for now, I’m letting curiosity win.
Finley James— the Finley James. Her music was my therapy back then. Every lyric she sang felt like it was written just for me. Callum used to laugh about it, calling me obsessed, but he was the one who downloaded every album for me and played them on repeat.
I’m not sure how I could pass this up.
Wednesday, March 12
Electric Lady Studios
9:01 AM
The studio is tucked into a nondescript building in Midtown, the kind of place you’d walk past without giving it a second glance. Inside, it’s a different story. The walls hum faintly with bass, and everything smells like coffee and faintly metallic.
In a way, this place feels other wordly compared to the streets just outside of the door.
A young assistant leads me down a hallway lined with platinum plaques. I spot a few names I recognize, but it’s Finley James that makes my chest flutter. Seeing her name here feels surreal, like stepping into a memory.
"Right in here," the assistant says, opening a soundproof door. "They’re finishing up a take."
I step inside, the hum of the control room hitting me instantly. There’s a wall of glowing boards, flashing monitors, and a couple of people behind the glass, but none of it holds my attention. My gaze locks on Callum in the recording booth.
He’s standing at the mic, headphones on, his eyes closed as he sings. His voice is low and raw, the kind of sound that makes you feel it in your chest. He’s wearing that same leather jacket but the sleeves are pushed up, showing the word "LEGEND" inked in bold, black letters up his forearm. His dark, messy hair falls just right above his eyes.
I can’t stop staring.
The way he holds the mic stand, his fingers curling around it, the veins in his forearms taut—it’s magnetic. He leans into the song and his long, sinewy body moves with the rhythm, completely lost in it.
It feels like I’ve stepped into a time warp. It’s almost like I’ve gone back to those nights in Charleston when I knew every note he played before he did. But he’s different now—more refined, more polished. He doesn’t just look like a rockstar; he is one. The music, the tattoos, the confidence—it’s all there, and it’s effortless.
The last note fades, and he opens his eyes. His gaze lands directly on me through the glass. He freezes for a second, then smiles—a slow, knowing curve of his lips that sends a shiver down my spine.
I stand there, my pulse hammering in my ears, unsure if I want to step closer or turn and walk out the door. Before I can decide, the assistant clears her throat behind me.
"I’ll let him know you’re here."
"Thanks," I say, my voice catching slightly.
She leaves, and I watch as Callum says something to the sound engineer before pulling off his headphones. He steps out of the booth, his movements confident but not hurried, like he has all the time in the world.
And for a moment, I forget every reason I told myself this was a bad idea.