16. Callum
SIXTEEN
Callum
This love we lost, we ’ ll find again
Monday, March 17
Mercer Hotel
147 Mercer Street, SoHo
6:21 AM
I’ve been staring at my phone so long the screen’s starting to blur.
Another text, another call—no response. She hasn’t answered any of them since she left the studio on Wednesday, and it’s driving me insane.
I didn’t get any sleep last night. I can’t let this drag out like last time. This time I have to make sure she knows I’m trying to reach her. I need her to tell me to my face to kick rocks if that is what she wants.
As I pace the small hotel room the label set me up in, the frustration builds in my chest like a storm I can’t stop. Did I do something wrong? Was it what happened at the studio? She didn’t seem upset when she left. In fact, she seemed quite satisfied.
She left quickly, but I assumed it was because of how quickly things went down. It was hot and sexy, but it was definitely a bit unconventional.
I run a hand through my hair, pulling at the ends as I glance at my phone again. Nothing.
"Shit," I mutter, grabbing my jacket. I can’t sit here anymore. I need to see her.
Prospect Park
7:04 AM
I make it to Brooklyn faster than I thought, but once I’m here, I realize I don’t know where to go. I don’t have her address, just the vague memory of her saying she lived near Prospect Park. I walk, the crisp morning air biting at my cheeks, scanning every street and brownstone as if her face might magically appear.
This is ridiculous. What am I even doing?
I’m about to turn back when I spot something familiar—her block. I think. It feels right, even if I can’t place why. I stop in front of a brownstone, hesitating for a moment before leaning against the stoop.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t look. It’s probably Luke, or maybe Finley asking about the next session.
The thought makes my chest tighten. If Sienna thinks... No. That’s not what this is.
I’m not leaving until I talk to her.
The creak of a door opening pulls me out of my thoughts. I glance up to where the sound is coming from, next door to the brownstone I'm standing in front of.
I half-expect to see a stranger stepping out. But it’s her. Sienna. She’s wearing a simple green coat with her hair pulled back. She’s holding the hand of a little boy. He’s got a backpack that’s almost swallowing him, and his messy dark brown hair sticks up at odd angles like he just wrestled with the morning.
I freeze.
That’s... Ollie.
She doesn't see me at first and I'm not sure if I should speak or not.
I knew she had a kid, but knowing it and seeing him are two completely different things. He looks up at her with his light blue eyes bright and his hand clutching hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Something about the way he moves, the way he tilts his head as he asks her something—it stops me cold.
It’s like a switch flips in my chest, something sharp and unshakable catching there. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t look away. I'm drawn to him just like I am her. He's a piece of her. Of her.
And then her eyes lock onto mine. For a second, she just stands there, her face blank with shock. Then, all at once, her expression hardens, and she pulls Ollie closer to her side, like she’s bracing for impact.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, her voice clipped but quiet.
"I’ve been trying to reach you," I say, stepping closer. "You weren’t answering, so?—"
"So you decided to show up at my house?" Her tone is sharp, but there’s something else beneath it. Something guarded.
"I needed to talk to you," I say, glancing at Ollie, who’s looking up at me with wide eyes. "Can we just?—"
"Not now," she cuts in, shifting slightly in front of Ollie like she’s shielding him. "I’m taking him to school. This isn't appropriate, Callum."
"Okay," I say quickly, holding up my hands. "I’ll wait. Just... please. I need to talk to you. Can I wait for you here?"
Her jaw tightens, and she exhales sharply, glancing down at Ollie, and then back at me. "This is a free country, you can do whatever you want. Bums sit on my steps every day."
"Ouch."
"I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Do whatever you want."
I nod, stepping back as she takes Ollie’s hand and walks away, her head high, her shoulders tense.
The kid glances back at me once, his hazel eyes wide with curiosity before Sienna gently pulls him forward. I watch them go, my chest tightening with something I can’t name.
I don’t know what’s going on here—why seeing that kid just hit me like a punch to the gut—but it makes all of this so much more real.
Sienna's right. We aren't those kids we were all those years ago. And I don't want to be. I want her as she is now, and I want her to know I do.
Sienna’s Brownstone
8:16 AM
Marble steps in the morning air are colder than I would have expected. The chill seeps through my jeans as I sit, elbows on my knees, staring at the street like it’ll give me answers.
Sienna said twenty minutes, but it’s been nearly an hour. I check my phone again. She left to drop Ollie off at school at least forty-five minutes ago. She’s not coming back.
I should leave. Go back to the Mercer, grab a coffee, prep for the noon meeting Luke’s been riding me about. But I can’t. Not now. Not when I know where she lives. I’ll wait here until nightfall if I have to. She’s going to talk to me.
The phone buzzes in my pocket. Luke.
Meet at Twelve Midtown East at noon. See you then, dickhead.
I type out a quick reply.
I’ll be there.
My thumb hovers over the send button before I delete the message entirely. I don’t know if I’ll be there. I can’t think about that meeting right now. Not when my head’s so full of her.
The sound of footsteps pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up just in time to see her turning the corner. My chest sinks as she walks toward me. I stand to greet her. She holds her head high and her face unreadable.
Great. I have no idea what to expect. But here goes.
"Hey, you. Ollie get off to school okay?"
She tilts her head and her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile. "You’re not wearing green," she says.
I blink. "What?"
"Green. It’s St. Patrick’s Day," she explains. Her tone is casual, like I didn’t just spend the last hour freezing my ass off waiting for her to come back.
It takes me a second, but then I get it. This is her way of breaking the ice, softening the edges while still keeping her distance. "Guess I didn’t get the memo," I say, standing. "You gonna pinch me now?"
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of warmth there. "You want coffee?"
The question throws me. It’s the last thing I expect her to say. "Jesus, yes, please!"
"Don’t make me regret it," she says, already heading toward the door. "Come on."
It’s not the first time I’ve been here, but it feels different now. Last time, I barely noticed the space—too caught up in her, the pull between us, the way she kissed me like she couldn’t get enough.
Now I actually look around, and the place feels like her, like a glimpse into the life she’s built since Charleston. A perfect blend of sophistication and the bohemian rebel I fell in love with all those years ago.
The solid mahogany door clicks shut behind me, and the faint scent of citrus hits me. It’s coming from a candle on the small table in the foyer, the unlit wax filling the air with something fresh and bright.
The rug under my boots is deep red and orange, worn but warm, the kind of touches that fill me with the essence of her.
I follow her into the living room. The large bay windows let in the kind of soft, filtered light that makes everything feel a little more alive.
Ollie’s keyboard sits in the corner by the window, its keys slightly smudged with fingerprints, like it’s been played recently.
A gallery wall covers part of the exposed brick, lined with crayon drawings and framed snapshots—her life on display in a way that makes my chest ache.
The rug under the gray sectional looks expensive and vintage, a combination I've come to appreciate. It’s the kind of detail I wouldn’t have noticed before, but now it feels significant. Now, every part of this place tells a story.
She gestures toward the couch. Her movements are clipped and her body's stiff. "Have a seat. I’ll make coffee."
I sit, sinking into the sectional that feels far too cozy for how tense this is. My hands rest on my knees as I glance around again, taking it all in. Her small desk sits in the corner, cluttered with a laptop, pens, and scraps of paper covered in designs I can’t make out from here. The light stringing across the brick wall above it glows faintly, softening the edges of the room.
She moves into the kitchen. The faint clink of mugs and the sound of water filling the kettle break the silence. She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the distance she’s putting between us. It’s not just the space—it’s in the way she carries herself, the set of her shoulders, the quick, deliberate way she moves.
The morning I left, everything was raw and new, like we’d stepped back into something familiar but somehow fresh and new and exciting. Now, though, it feels fragile and off-limits and somehow wrong. I’m on eggshells, worried that one wrong word could make it all fall apart.
"You still take it black?" she asks, her tone neutral.
"Yeah," I say, watching her as she busies herself with the kettle. The silence continues to stretch between us. It's heavy and sharp, and there is no mistaking the tension building with every second.
When she sets a mug in front of me and sits across from me on the other side of the coffee table, I can’t hold it in any longer. "Why’d you ghost me?"
Her mug stops halfway to her lips, and she looks at me like I just spoke a foreign language. "Ghost you? You're asking why I ghosted you ?"
"You left the studio last in a rush," I say, leaning forward. "And I haven't heard from you since. You've been ignoring my calls and my texts. I’m not letting it go this time. I needed to see you, to hear you say it to my face if you were done with me."
She lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "That’s rich."
"What’s that supposed to mean?" I ask, frowning.
"It means you have a lot of nerve turning this around on me."
"I'm not turning anything around. I just want to know why you won't take my calls."
"This was never going to go anywhere, Callum. I was just trying to throw you away before you had the chance to do it to me again."
I blink dramatically. The words hit me like a slap. "What are you talking about?"
Her eyes narrow, and her tone hardens. "I’m talking about Finley. I saw the articles, Callum. The photos. ‘The next power couple in rock.’ You didn’t think that was worth mentioning? I get it, you don't owe me anything. But if you didn't know before, you know how much you wrecked me before. That was just shitty to do."
Realization dawns, and I exhale sharply. "You think—Sienna, no. That’s not?—"
"Oh, let me guess," she cuts in, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "It’s all a big misunderstanding?"
"It is," I say, my voice firm. "You think I’d hide something like that from you? It didn’t even occur to me to warn you because it’s not real."
She arches a brow. Her expression is as sharp as her words. "Not real? Then, what is there to warn?"
"The whole thing is a PR move," I explain, leaning forward. "Pinnacle wanted to capitalize on the buzz, so they suggested we do a collab. The articles? The photos? It’s all just puff to hype the song."
Her eyes narrow further. "So you’re playing the long game? Because these articles have been popping up since last summer. Cut the bullshit."
I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah, we spent time together last summer, but it never became anything. We both realized we weren’t into each other like that. But the buzz stuck, and the label wanted to use it."
She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at me, her hazel eyes sharp and unrelenting, like she’s peeling back every layer of what I just said, looking for the truth. Finally, she exhales and sets her mug down with a clink. "I don’t know if I can do this, Callum."
"Do what?" I ask, my voice softer now.
"This," she says, gesturing between us. "You. Me. Whatever this is."
Her words are a punch I didn’t see coming. My jaw clenches, and for a second, I can’t respond. But then I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees, my hands curling around the mug.
"I’m not giving up, Sienna. Not this time."
Sienna stares at me for a long moment. I can see her working through it, weighing every word I just said. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter and less angry, but it still carries an edge. "So, let me get this straight. The articles, the photos, all of it—it’s just marketing? You expect me to believe that?"
"Yes," I say, my tone unwavering. "Because it’s the truth."
"It’s hard to ignore what I’ve seen. The way you two look in those photos... I don’t know, Callum. Is it that simple?"
Yes, I want to insist, to tell her it is that simple, but I know her. She’s been burned before—by me, no less—and I can’t blame her for hesitating.
"You’re right," I say after a moment. "While the explanation is simple, and one hundred percent true, I know there is a lot more to it than just a few photos in the media. But Sienna, there’s nothing between Finley and me. Never was. And I should’ve told you sooner because I knew that was the plan, but it didn’t even cross my mind because it’s not real."
She exhales, her shoulders dropping slightly as she shakes her head. "I want to believe you," she says finally, her voice tinged with pain. Or maybe it’s fear. "But I have more than myself to think of now."
"I need space," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I’ll give you all the space you need," I promise. "I want to show you I mean it."
Her eyes widen, just slightly, and for a second, I think I’ve gotten through to her. But then she pulls back, her expression hardening again. "That’s a nice line," she says, her voice quieter but no less cutting. "But it doesn’t change the fact that I have a son to think about. This isn’t just about me. My life is here. Ollie’s life is here. Marcus and I share custody—this is his home. Yours is in Nashville. We could never make this work, even if we wanted to."
"I know where your life is, Sienna," I say, my voice steady even as my chest tightens. "And I’m not asking you to uproot it. I don’t even know what this looks like yet. But I’m not going back to Nashville and forgetting about you. I’m not walking away again."
Her eyes narrow, her hands tightening around the edge of the counter. "Still… We have no idea what tomorrow holds. I don’t have the luxury of seeing where the cards fall."
"Let’s figure it out," I say, leaning forward. "I don’t have all the answers, but I’m willing to try. If that’s not enough—if I’m not enough—then say so. But don’t throw this away and blame it on me. Because that is on you."
She stands suddenly, grabs her mug, and walks toward the kitchen. "I need to get ready for work," she says over her shoulder, her tone final.
I sit there for a moment, staring at the spot where she stood, the weight of everything settling over me like a storm cloud. Then I stand, running a hand through my hair as I grab my jacket.
When she comes back, I’m still standing by the door. I glance at her, searching for something—anything—in her expression that tells me I haven’t completely lost her. "I meant what I said," I tell her. "I’m not giving up."
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she opens the door and waits for me to step outside. The click of the door shutting behind me feels like a verdict I don’t know how to overturn.