15. Sienna
FIFTEEN
Sienna
No more shadows, no more shame
8th St - NYU Station
11:04 AM
The air outside the studio is crisp and bright, a stark contrast to the hot haze inside the studio. It’s the first true spring day this year, and I can’t tell if it’s a sign of rebirth or the universe reminding me how easy it is to fall for someone who wears charm like a second skin.
I adjust my crossbody bag and head down the stairs to the train. My heart still hammers in my chest as I step onto the sidewalk. Even with the markedly warmer day, my breath comes out in little clouds. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the steady stream of cars and people passing by, trying to ground myself.
I told him I had a meeting. It wasn’t a total lie—I do have work to do, but it could’ve waited. I needed to get out of there. The thought of sitting down for a meal with him and his bandmates was more than I could wrap my mind around.
I'm still trying to figure out what in the hell this even is.
The studio felt too small after what just happened. The air became thick with him—his touch, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. It was everything I’d dreamed of for years, and somehow, that makes it worse.
Because now I don’t know what to do with it.
My mind goes back to the not-so-veiled threat by Marcus. He made it clear he doesn't want his son, our son, to have anything to do with Callum. I know part of it is that he saw how hurt I was when Callum left. He is protecting Ollie, and I should be doing the same.
I walk without thinking, my feet moving down the steps. The subway noise wraps around me. The hum of traffic behind me and the scrape of the metal wheels on the tracks below fill the quiet I’ve been trying to escape since the moment I left the studio.
My mind won’t stop replaying it—the way his hands felt on me, the way he whispered my name like a promise, the way he made me forget everything that led us to this point.
God, what was I thinking? And in the studio, of all places? I let myself get swept up in everything—seeing him up there, hearing his voice, meeting my long-time idol. It was like I wasn’t even in control, like my brain just shut off and let every primal instinct take over. Rational thought didn’t stand a chance.
The stale underground air hits me as I swipe my Metro Card and walk through the turnstile. The rhythmic screech of an approaching train drowns out the pounding in my ears, but it doesn’t quiet the voice in my head reminding me how vulnerable I just made myself.
What am I even doing? Twice now, I’ve let myself fall back into him. Am I an idiot to think nothing’s changed, like I’m not still holding the pieces he left behind? And for what?
To feel alive for a moment? To pretend this is more than it is? Because at some point, I’m going to have to ask him. When the studio wraps and he heads back to Nashville, what happens then? Does this end as suddenly as it started? Is this just fun for him while he’s in town, or is there something real here?
I don’t know if I want to hear the answer. But I know I need to ask the question.
Everything about him pulls me back to a version of myself I’m not sure I can be anymore. I glance at my phone, half-expecting to see a text from him, but the screen is blank. My stomach twists, and I shove it back into my pocket. He probably thinks everything’s fine. That what happened between us was just another step toward... what? Something? Nothing?
It’s not fine.
I step onto the train, finding an empty seat near the door. The car is mostly quiet—just a handful of people staring at their phones or out the windows. I lean back, closing my eyes for a moment, trying to push Callum out of my head.
But the memory of him is everywhere—the way his voice sounded in the booth, the way his tattoos flexed when he gripped my waist, the way he made me feel like I was his .
I hate how much I liked it.
I hate how much I wanted it.
I hate feeling like I need it.
We have to talk. I've got to know what it means, or if it means anything at all.
The train jolts forward, the familiar rhythm of the tracks pulling me out of my thoughts. By the time I reach my stop, my resolve is thin, but I remind myself why I left. Why I had to leave.
Callum is my past. But now he’s here, tangled up in my present, and I've got to understand if this is a fuck, as Brooke might say, or if things between are too complicated to leave it there.
As I climb the stairs to the street, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I stop, pulling it out, and my heart skips when I see his name.
Hey. You left so fast. You okay?
I stare at the message as my fingers hover over the keyboard. I don’t know how to answer that. Am I okay? A lot to unpack there.
Instead, I lock the screen and slip the phone back into my pocket. It's time to get real, but I'm not ready to go there, yet. Soon, though.
Thursday, March 13
Prospect Park
4:01 PM
The park is alive with the first real signs of spring. Kids are yelling, dogs are chasing tennis balls, parents chatting as they hover near jungle gyms. I'm a Southern girl through and through, but I do love the spring in New York.
I sit on a bench under a blooming cherry tree with my phone in one hand. I keep an eye on Ollie as he tears across the grass after a group of kids. His laugh carries over the noise, bright and carefree, and it pulls a smile from me despite the knot still twisting in my stomach from yesterday.
Callum clearly learned his lesson after not reaching out for over twenty-four hours after our first indiscretion. He's texted me three times since I left the studio yesterday and let me know their schedule is jam-packed trying to finish up the album.
I've been keeping it light. I appreciate the effort on his part, but now that I know I either need to shit or get off the pot, I'm not sure how to respond.
Are we something, or are we not? He seems intent on making something of this, but I could be reading my own wishes into whatever this is.
I swipe idly through my phone, scrolling past emails and calendar reminders until a notification catches my eye.
New Rock Sensation Callum Reid Teams Up with Finley James: Could This Be Their Official Coming Out?
The words hit me like a punch, and before I can stop myself, I tap the link. A photo loads at the top of the article—Callum and Finley walking side by side, mid-laugh. It’s candid and intimate, the kind of shot that screams chemistry. He’s in a leather jacket, she’s in ripped jeans and boots.
I zoom in and study every detail of the photo. Their hands are close, possibly even brushing but they aren't quite touching, at least in the shot. But the headline and the accompanying photo certainly lead me to think they are more than music colleagues.
I skim the article, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Last summer, rumors swirled that Reid and James were more than just collaborators after they were spotted together at several private industry events. Though neither confirmed the relationship, insiders have hinted that their chemistry extends beyond the recording studio. With their upcoming track generating chatter, could this be the moment they go public?
I stare at the screen, the words blurring as my stomach twists into a tight knot. Last summer. He was with her last summer. And now... what? Am I supposed to believe I’m different? That I mean something? When she was right there with us yesterday?
I swipe back to the photo. My jaw tightens as the memory of him introducing me to her yesterday flashes through my mind. " An old friend from Charleston," he’d said, as if I was just some footnote in his life. Not even worth a mention as anything more.
Was that all I was? A friend? Did I imagine the whole thing?
God, I’m such a dumbass.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the bench beside me, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes.
I knew this would happen. I knew it. The way he looked at her, the way she was so comfortable there—it all makes sense now.
Of course, he’s sleeping with her. He’s a rockstar on the cusp of something huge, and she’s a star in her own right.
Isn’t that what they all do? Pair up, make headlines, fuck like bunnies?
My chest tightens, and I swallow hard, trying to shove the hurt down where it can’t choke me. I glance at Ollie, chasing a little girl around the swings, his laugh echoing through the park. I can’t lose it here. Not now.
This is the universe reminding me where my priorities are. Ollie. Not redoing a failed romance with the man who left my heart in pieces while he followed his dreams.
But the anger—God, the anger is harder to push down. I hate him. I hate me. For believing him, for letting myself fall back into something I should’ve left in the past. I can't blame him. We aren't together. He doesn't owe me anything.
It's my fault for creating a happily ever after in my head.
What was I thinking? That we would ride off into the sunset like Sonny and Cher? We all know how that ended.
The breeze ruffles the branches above me, scattering petals across the bench and onto my lap. I brush them away while keeping my jaw clenched so tight it hurts. This was a mistake. All of it.
I grab my phone and shove it into my bag as I stand. "Ollie!" I call, trying to keep my voice even. He looks up, his face flushed and happy. "Time to go, bud. Mommy's got some work to do and you can have a snack."
"Already?" he says, pouting as he jogs over. "I'm not hungry. I want to play!"
"Yep. Let’s go," I say, brushing his hair back and giving him a quick smile I don’t feel. "We’ll come back tomorrow."
He grumbles but takes my hand, and I lead him toward our street. My phone stays buried in my bag, the weight of it pressing against me like a dare. I don’t pull it out. I can’t.
Sienna’s Brownstone
8:16 PM
Ollie is finally asleep, tucked in with his dinosaur pajamas and his favorite bedtime book still open on the pillow beside him. I lingered longer than usual tonight, watching him breathe softly marveling at his little hand clutching the corner of his blanket. He’s my anchor in all of this—the one constant I can hold onto when everything else feels like it’s spinning out of control.
But now the apartment is quiet, and the knot in my chest has tightened into something I can’t ignore. I sit on the couch with my laptop balanced on my knees. The faint blue light from the screen washes over the coffee table, catching on the edges of Ollie’s crayon drawings scattered across it.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I know that.
But ever since the park, the headline has been gnawing at me, repeating in my mind like a broken record.
Callum and Finley. A power couple. Last summer. My hands hover over the keyboard for a moment, the weight of what I’m about to do pressing down hard, and then I type their names into the search bar.
Callum Reid Finley James.
The results load in a blink, and there it is—article after article, photo after photo. The first one is from a music blog I’ve never heard of, but the photo catches my eye immediately. It’s them, on what looks like a rooftop bar, the city skyline glowing behind them. Callum’s wearing a v-neck t-shirt and holding a drink, leaning slightly toward Finley, who’s laughing with her head tipped back.
"LEGEND" glares at me. Fucking legend.
I scroll further, skimming headlines that blur together in my mind.
Dynamic Duo? Callum Reid and Finley James Spark Rumors of a Romance During Studio Sessions.
The Next Big Thing: Callum Reid on the Verge of Stardom, With Finley James at His Side.
My stomach twists as I click another link, this one from a more mainstream site. The headline is worse: " Are Callum Reid and Finley James the New Power Couple of Rock?"
The article mentions their collaboration, praising their chemistry in and out of the studio. There’s a photo embedded halfway down—Callum and Finley at an industry party, her hand resting casually on his arm. It looks so natural, so easy. They look like they belong together.
I slam the laptop shut. My pulse pounds in my ears. But it doesn’t stop the images from playing on repeat in my head. The way he looked at her yesterday. The way she leaned toward him when they laughed. It was like they were in on some secret I’d never understand.
It all makes sense now.
The pieces fall into place with a cruel clarity. He’s here recording, she’s here recording—they’re working together, together. And me? What am I? Some convenient blast from the past? A fun fuck to spice it up?
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to shove the thoughts back down, but they keep spilling out. I let myself fall for it. For him. Twice now, I’ve let myself believe there was something real here, something worth risking everything for.
All along, he was going to leave. He said so himself, he's only here until he finishes recording the album.
This is my home now. I have Ollie, and because of our shared custody, I'm not going anywhere. That should have been it right then and there.
I grab my phone off the coffee table, staring at the blank screen like it holds the answers I need. I could text him. Ask him outright. But what would I even say? Hey, are you sleeping with Finley James? Because I just read half the internet, and it looks like you are.
No. I can’t do that. I won’t.
He doesn’t owe me anything.
But, I also have to use the information I have to make my own decisions. I definitely don’t intend to be his side piece.
Instead, I toss the phone aside and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling as the anger and doubt churn inside me. I hate this. I hate how much I care, how much I’ve let him get under my skin again.
And most of all, I hate that I can’t stop wondering what the hell he’s doing right now—and who he’s with.