Chapter 14
Fourteen
Now
Callie was halfway through her cereal, still blearily scrolling through messages on her phone, when there was a knock on the back door.
Hannah, wearing a penguin onesie, opened it.
She gave a startled shriek when she saw Neil at the door, as if he might have a camera in his hand. Then she fled upstairs.
‘Morning, team,’ Neil said cheerfully, stepping into the kitchen as if he lived there. He did not refer to the screaming tween.
Her stepdad looked up from his toast and gave Neil a polite nod. Her mum handed him a mug of tea before he’d even shrugged off the cold.
‘Are we doing more filming today?’ her mother asked.
‘Callie is,’ Neil said, taking a sip of tea. ‘Sam’s coming today.’
Callie knew Sam was coming, but she tensed at his name.
‘We’re shooting the morning segment at the bakery,’ Neil continued. ‘The date scene, then the baking lesson.’
Callie blinked. ‘Sorry… what lesson?’
‘The baking lesson,’ he said, as if this were obvious. ‘You and Sam are learning something simple. Scones or something. It’ll look great.’
Callie felt the slow, cold realisation drip down her spine.
‘Who,’ she said as calmly as she could, ‘exactly is giving us this lesson?’
Neil smiled, oblivious. ‘Mae, of course. We put in the request yesterday.’
Callie’s stomach lurched so violently she had to grip the edge of the table.
Mae. Teaching her. Teaching Sam. In the bakery. On camera.
Her mum tutted. ‘She’s never been much of a cook.’
Despite the rising dread of the day ahead, Callie couldn’t allow her mother’s comment to pass. ‘Oh? You never complained when I was putting dinner on the table for you and George seven nights a week, all those years,’ she shot at the woman.
Her mother’s smile started slipping ever so slightly. ‘I worked nights,’ she told Neil.
‘Four nights a week. And yet,’ Callie said. She suddenly realised everyone was looking at her. Including Neil.
Hannah came down, fully dressed and hair tidy, in record time. She looked around her, noting the vibe.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ her mother said quickly.
Brian was looking at her with slight confusion. ‘Can’t imagine you not being in charge of the kitchen. You never even let me cook.’
Callie didn’t trust herself to say anymore. She didn’t want to ruin her mother’s new personality. She’d clearly worked hard to curate it. Plus, bigger fish were waiting to be fried.
‘Neil,’ she said quietly, ‘I didn’t know about this baking lesson.’
‘Oh, she was great with the local shoot,’ Neil said. ‘We thought it made sense. Authenticity and all that.’
Authenticity. Right. Because nothing was more authentic than being forced into a staged bakery date with your former bestie/that other thing they were, and the person you were being paid to manufacture sexual tension with.
Callie managed a nod. ‘Okay. Fine.’
Neil didn’t notice the strain in her voice. He finished his tea, promised they’d be quick today, and left with his usual cheerful wave.
The kitchen door closed behind him. Silence settled.
Her mum touched her shoulder. ‘You look pale.’ Callie could hear the hidden pleasure in the comment. She wasn’t going to forget Callie’s near exposure of her former mothering skills, or lack thereof.
Callie shot her a look that could have curdled milk. ‘I’m fine.’
But she wasn’t. Not even close.
Hannah nudged her. ‘Isn’t that going to be weird?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you and Mae, like, toxic or something?’
Callie sighed, tired. ‘That’s not the word I’d use.’
Back Then
Callie subtly checked her phone for the fifth time in as many minutes.
No reply. Not even a delivered tick. Mae hadn’t answered her call earlier, either. Callie had left a voicemail that now felt embarrassingly cheerful.
She forced herself to put the phone face down on the table and focus.
Emma was talking—something about her dog, or maybe her sister’s dog, someone’s dog—and Callie nodded when it felt appropriate, smiling where she knew she should.
Emma’s face glowed under the soft pub lighting.
She was lovely. Warm. Someone Callie genuinely liked.
Someone Callie had been looking forward to kissing all week. It had been exciting to think of it.
But she couldn’t feel any of it properly tonight. Her mind was stretched too thin with unanswered questions.
Why won’t she text me back? Why won’t she pick up? What the hell is happening?
It wasn’t like Mae. They talked about everything. Or they used to.
Emma paused mid-sentence. ‘Are you all right?’
Callie startled. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Long day.’
It wasn’t untrue. She’d built a huge Star Wars Lego kit with George for two hours today, which was more tiring than it sounded. He was very precise. He didn’t like it when you went outside the instructions.
But that wasn’t the real problem.
Callie kept re-running her last conversation with Mae in her head. What had happened? Because Callie was almost sure Mae wasn’t a bigot. She hadn’t cared who anyone went out with at school. It didn’t even seem to faze her when those three boys announced they were a throuple.
But there had been something off in her eyes. A shutter down. A distance. What was its source?
Emma leaned forward a little. ‘You seem… somewhere else.’
Callie attempted a laugh. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Very,’ Emma said gently.
Callie twisted her straw wrapper between her fingers. On the table beside it, her phone buzzed once. She jumped. But it was just the battery warning. Not Mae.
‘Sorry,’ Callie said. ‘I’m totally here now. Promise.’
‘Is something wrong? Because…’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Callie said quickly. She couldn’t talk to Emma about Mae. It was too complicated.
She tried again to drag herself into the date. Emma was delightful. And Callie liked her. She did. This thing between them had been so fun, so unexpected, so new.
But through all of it, the Mae thing was a weight on her shoulders.
Mae, ignoring her texts. Mae, not picking up. Mae, who had never cared who Callie dated before. So why now?
An uncomfortable thought wormed its way in: What if Mae thinks you’re going to make a move on her next… and she’s horrified?
‘My last bus goes in five minutes,’ Emma said.
Callie nodded. ‘I’ll walk you to the stop.’
They walked out together into the warm evening, the pub doorway spilling golden light across the pavement, and headed to the stop for the Staffington bus.
When they reached it, Emma turned to her. Her expression was shy, hopeful. She stepped closer and reached, carefully, for Callie’s hand.
Callie let her. She wanted this. She’d imagined this kiss. She’d replayed it in her head. She was ready.
Emma’s voice was soft. ‘Can I—?’
Callie wanted to lean in. She tried. But there was a weight in her stomach, a wrongness she couldn’t place.
Emma’s face was inches away, pretty and open and right there.
And Callie couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kiss her. She was simply not present enough to enjoy it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Can we do this another time?’
Emma blinked. Hurt flickered, and she hid it quickly.
‘Yeah. Of course,’ she said, stepping back with a grace Callie didn’t deserve. ‘Another time.’
The bus arrived, and Callie cursed the thing. If it had arrived sixty seconds ago, Callie wouldn’t have had to hurt Emma’s feelings.
They said goodnight, and Emma hopped aboard, taken away from the shitty date that was Callie. The second the bus rounded a corner, Calle took her phone out again. Still nothing.
Callie walked home despising herself, her mind circling dark suspicions she sifted through without daring to linger on. She had never felt so blind, or so utterly alone.