22. Callum
TWENTY-TWO
Callum
We’ve found the road, we’ll keep on track
7:18 PM
Finley suggested this restaurant when I asked her for a good restaurant in Brooklyn. She raves about it so it can’t be all that bad.
It’s nice enough, but I haven’t noticed much beyond Sienna. Her fingers absentmindedly trace the rim of her glass. There’s something about the way she’s holding herself—shoulders a little too tight, smile not quite reaching her eyes—that tells me she’s got more on her mind than the small talk we have been exchanging for the last twenty minutes.
I should probably ask her about it. But every time I catch her looking at me, really looking, it's almost like she’s trying to figure me out all over again.
"Callum," she says suddenly, breaking the silence, her tone teasing. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Of course," I say, grinning as I lean back in my chair. "You were saying something about how ridiculously handsome I am?"
Her laugh is soft but real, and for a second, some of that tension in her face eases. "Obviously. What else would I be talking about?"
"So," I say, leaning back in my chair, "how was your week? You've been busy doing something. Is everything okay?"
Her lips twitch, and it makes me think she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. "Do you want the real answer or the polite one?"
"Real," I say without hesitation. "Always real."
She sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly. "It was a lot. Some work stuff, some life stuff. You know how it goes."
I nod, but her answer feels deliberately vague. "Want to talk about it?"
Her gaze flicks up to mine, and for a second, something sharp crosses her face—something she’s not ready to share. "Not tonight," she says softly. "I just want to enjoy this."
Fair enough. I’m not about to push her, not when I know exactly what it’s like to want a break from the weight of everything. "Well," I say, sitting forward, "if it makes you feel any better, my week was a shitshow too."
She raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Oh, really? Is everything okay?"
I shrug, trying to downplay it. "You know, just the usual—former manager trying to screw me out of half my deal, lawyers telling me to ‘stay calm,’ and a million things that need to get done before the album’s finished. With a hard date deadline creeping up faster than the work is getting done."
Her brow furrows slightly. "That sounds stressful. Are you holding up okay? What is this with that old manager? I'm so sorry you're going through that."
"It is stressful," I admit, taking a sip of my drink. "But it’s not like I didn’t know this was part of the gig. Just didn’t think it’d all hit at once."
She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. "So what are you going to do?"
"Same thing I always do," I say, grinning despite myself. "Figure it out. Or fake it until I do. My record label is now involved. So I told Luke to just take care of it. I don't care at this point, I just don't ever want to hear the name Jake Morrison again."
She laughs softly, shaking her head. "You’re good at that. Faking it until you make it, I mean. I could take some notes."
"I’ve had practice," I say, my grin widening. "But enough about me. What’s been going on with you? Seriously. I want the un-polite, real deal deal."
She hesitates, her fingers tightening around her glass. "Nothing as dramatic as your week, that’s for sure."
"Hmm," I say, watching her closely. "Is that so? Because your face says otherwise. Out with it."
Her smile fades slightly, and she glances down at the table. "I don’t want to ruin the night. Honestly. I'll tell you, just not here. Let's talk about happy things."
"You won’t ruin the night," I say, my voice quieter now. "Sienna, you can tell me anything. Let me be there for you."
Her gaze meets mine, and for a second, I think she’s going to open up. But then she shakes her head, her smile returning, softer this time. "Please, let's drop it."
I nod, not wanting to push any further. "Deal. But just so you know, I’m gonna hold you to that."
By the time we finish with dinner and linger over drinks, the conversation shifts to less intense topics. I’m telling her about the worst dive bar gig I ever played when she interrupts, laughing.
"I remember that," she says, shaking her head. "You texted me that night, saying the audience was mostly cockroaches."
"That sounds about right," I say, laughing with her. "Man, I’d love to see what twenty-one-year-old you was texting me back then. After I left, I mean. I wish I had gotten your texts."
She grins, tilting her head. "You know, I never delete my texts. I still have them. Those texts you say you never got. I just looked at them again recently, after we ran into each other, to see if I somehow missed your responses. A long line of blue bubbles with not a single word from you."
I blink at her. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," she says, pulling out her phone. "Hold on. I’ll show you."
She scrolls through her messages, and after a few minutes, she turns her phone to me. "See."
"No way," I say, leaning closer as she opens the conversation. "I never saw any of these."
Her texts become longer and more desperate, until the last few, which are heartbreakingly short.
Why won’t you answer me? I don’t understand. I guess this is it, then.
I hate you.
Maybe this was a bad idea. My stomach twists as I read them. The weight of her words settle heavily in my chest. "Sienna..."
"I was so angry," she says quietly, her voice tinged with something raw. "And we're supposed to be doing happy tonight." She swipes at the message and instead of closing it opens up my contact information. The number catches my eye.
"I’m sorry," I say, the words feeling too small and my eyes are drawn back to the phone number. "Sienna, I don't think that was my number," I point to her phone.
She hesitates, then turns the screen toward me. "That wasn't your number?"
I stare at it for a second, confusion settling over me. "No. The last four digits are wrong."
She blinks, her head tilting slightly. "What?"
"I’m serious," I say, pulling out my wallet and digging for an old business card I’ve kept since Charleston. I hold it up to her phone, and sure enough, the numbers don’t match.
We sit there in silence, both of us staring at the screen.
"That doesn’t make sense," she says finally. "I saved it directly from your other texts."
"Maybe it got messed up somehow?" I suggest, though even as I say it, doubt creeps in. "That is super weird."
She sighs, locking her phone and setting it down on the table. "Let’s not dwell on it. I don’t want to end the night obsessing over ancient history."
"Fair enough," I say, leaning back. "What do you want to end the night with, then?"
Her lips twitch, her expression softening. "You know, I’ve been thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve had a real night off."
I raise an eyebrow, grateful for the shift. "A night off?"
"Yeah," she says, smiling faintly. "A low-key evening where I don’t have to think about work or Ollie or Marcus or... anything, really. A night to just veg."
I tap my fingers on the table, pretending to mull it over. "So what does a night off look like for Sienna Hughey?"
She laughs softly. "Probably something boring. A movie, a couch, maybe some popcorn if I’m feeling wild."
"Wild, huh?" I tease, my lips twitching into a grin. "Do I get to pick the movie?"
"Absolutely not," she shoots back, narrowing her eyes. "You’d pick something awful just to torture me. Like that time you made me watch Rocky Horror Picture Show. "
"That is not awful! It's a classic!"
"Exactly. Worst movie-picker of all time. So, no, you can't."
"Not true," I argue, leaning forward slightly. "How about something like Rock Star or Almost Famous ."
She groans, rolling her eyes. "No and no."
I laugh and bask in the easiness of being with Sienna. It’s her, sitting there with that half-smile on her lips, looking more relaxed than she has all night. And I can't get enough.
"Well?" I say, tilting my head. "You gonna let me prove you wrong?"
Her brows lift slightly. "It sounds like you're really pushing this movie night thing?"
"Only if you’re brave enough to handle my superior taste in cinema."
She rolls her eyes again, but her smile widens. "Fine. But my place. It’s closer, and I have better snacks. And I can put on my comfy pants."
"Done," I say, standing and grabbing my jacket. "But I’m warning you now—if you talk through the whole thing, I’m walking out."
"Empty promises," she says, her laughter trailing behind me as we head out onto the street.
Prospect Park
9:37 PM
The walk back to her place is quiet but comfortable. It's the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. The air is crisp, carrying the faint smell of wood smoke from somewhere down the block.
When we reach her brownstone, she fumbles with the keys for a second before pushing the door open. "Come in," she says, her voice light but a little breathless, like she’s been holding her guard up all night and just let it drop. "It's cold out here."
I kick off my boots by the door, placing them beside tiny soccer cleats and rain boots.
"Wine?" she asks, heading to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
"Sure," I say, following her just enough to lean against the doorway and watch her move. She’s pulling down two glasses and her long hair falls over one shoulder. There's something about the simple, unguarded way she’s standing there that feels like home in a way I can’t explain.
When she turns, glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other, she raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," I say, my lips twitching into a smile. "You just look so damn good."
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush, and I don’t miss the way her lips curve as she pours the wine. When she hands me a glass, her fingers brush mine, lingering for a second too long.
I meet her gaze, and for a moment, the air between us is charged. No words are necessary because everything’s being said, anyway, through our body language.
"Sienna," I start, low and rough. Her name drags out like a confession.
"Yeah?" she murmurs in a way that sounds less like a question and more like permission. Her eyes lock onto mine, wide and unguarded, and we both know what’s coming and neither of us is about to stop it.
I close the space between us and slide my hand into her hair. My fingers tangling in the soft waves as I tilt her head up. Her breath catches and her lips part just enough to make my chest tighten. I brush my thumb along her jaw, slow and deliberate, daring her to stop me.
She doesn’t.
I lean in, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, to catch the faintest trace of wine on her breath. Her hands come up and clutches the front of my shirt. That’s all the invitation I need. My lips crash into hers, and the kiss isn’t soft or tentative—it’s hungry, a heat that’s been building for hours, years.
She presses into me and her body fits against mine like we were made for this, and for each other. A low sound escapes her throat that sends a pulse of fire straight through me. I slide my hands down, skimming her waist, gripping her hips, and pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us.
"Callum," she whispers against my mouth, her voice shaky but filled with something that makes my blood pound. I kiss her harder, drinking in the way she says my name like only she can.
I press her against the counter, arching her backward. The wine glasses clink, nearly toppling, but neither of us cares. My hands are everywhere—her waist, her back, sliding under her shirt to the warm, bare skin beneath. She gasps as her head tilts back. I kiss along her jaw, her neck, every inch of her I can reach.
I can't get enough of her.
"I’ve wanted this," I murmur against her skin, my voice raw. "You. Like this."
Her response is a soft, breathless sound. Her hands slide under my shirt as her nails graze my stomach and cause my control to slip even further. I capture her lips again, and this time it’s slower but no less intense, every movement deliberate, every touch setting me on fire.
When she pulls back just enough to look into me, her eyes are dark and filled with something electric. "Then don’t stop."