34. CAL
CAL
Lumberjack saves trees, and cuts down bad feelings
N ot for the first time, I found myself utterly lost for words in his presence.
The moment Wade scooped me up, carrying me like I was his —his boyfriend, his partner—it hit me again just how unreal it all felt. The idea of us hadn’t fully settled in my mind. I kept telling myself it was just a ruse, an elaborate plan to save face in front of his family. But my thoughts betrayed me, flickering back to the competition, to the sight of his entire family cheering for me. That warmth, their voices echoing in support, had been enough to drown out the ache in my ankle and the sharper sting of knowing my mother hadn’t come.
That sobering thought snaked through me, pulling me inward even as Wade set me down carefully on the soft, king-sized mattress. His scent clung to the sheets—it calmed me, but not enough to stop where my mind wanted to travel. Once a masochist always a masochist.
“Pretty Boy?”
His voice cut through the silence, tethering me to the present.
I glanced up at him, towering above me with an armful of pillows. He didn’t press me for answers or question my quiet. Instead, he began arranging them around me—propping up my booted foot, fluffing the pillows behind my back—his hands as gentle and unhurried as if he had all the time in the world.
When he finished arranging the pillows, Wade moved to the small kitchenette tucked into the corner of the room. I watched him pour a glass of water, his broad shoulders and deliberate movements comforting me in a way I wasn’t ready to admit. He crossed to the box of pills on the counter, popping two into his palm before turning back toward me.
“What?” I snapped, sharper than I intended as he held them out. “Don’t trust me to take my own pills? Think I’ll take too many and knock myself out? Let them wash away what’s left of my life?”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. The pain that flashed across his face was like a raw wound, unguarded and unmistakable.
“Don’t ever joke about that,” he said, his voice tight and low, clipped in a way that made me freeze. “That’s no fucking joke, Cal. I don’t ever want to lose someone I l—” He faltered, stumbling over the word, and my heart cracked under the weight of what he couldn’t say.
That shouldn’t have stung, but it did. The knot in my chest tightened, and something ugly inside me rose up, determined to shield me. I doubled down, spite spilling out of me before I could stop it.
“Not a joke, just a fact, right?” I shot back. “Don’t trust me not to let my life wash away with my career? Think I’m going to be another washed-out athlete with an opioid problem, huh? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To stop me from drinking myself into oblivion? To stop me from OD-ing—”
His hand shot out, catching my chin mid-rant, forcing me to look at him.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough and unyielding.
I met his stormy grey eyes, and the fire in them was enough to make my breath hitch. He wasn’t just angry—he was furious, the kind of fury that came from hurt.
“If this is some tactic to make me hate you, you’d better keep trying,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, every word sharp as glass. “Because I’m not here to control you. But if you talk like that, then yes—I will make sure you don’t overdose. I will make sure you don’t drown yourself in sorrow. And I will selfishly do everything in my power to ensure we have a happy, healthy life together. One that isn’t cut short because you decided to give up.”
Tears burned in my eyes, hot and relentless, but I refused to let them fall. I turned my gaze past his shoulder, desperate to escape the weight of his words, the intensity of his care. But his hand held firm, his grip gentle but immovable.
My arms wrapped tightly around my torso, nails digging into my skin as I clung to anything that could anchor me in the chaos of my own emotions. Shame twisted in my chest, mingling with anguish as the weight of what I’d said—and what he’d said—settled between us.
For once, I didn’t know how to push him away. And the truth was, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to.
Wade’s grip softened, but his gaze pinned me in place, steady and unrelenting. “You don’t get to joke like that—not with me,” he said, his voice low and rough, a growl that reverberated in my chest. “I’ve seen what happens when someone gives up. I’ve held someone I love as the light went out of their eyes, Cal. And I’ll be damned if I ever let that happen again.”
The words gutted me, slicing through my defenses like they were paper-thin. His grey eyes burned into mine, searing with an intensity I couldn’t escape. My breath hitched, my chest tightening, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. I wanted to argue, to lash out, to throw up a shield of biting words and flippant retorts, but the weight in his gaze held me captive.
He didn’t move, didn’t waver. His hand, strong and calloused, cradled my face like I was something fragile—like he was afraid I might shatter right there in his grasp. And God, wasn’t he right to be afraid? I was cracking already, the sharp edges of my own despair cutting into me from every angle.
“Why, Wade?” I finally whispered, my voice trembling with a vulnerability I hated letting him see. “Why do you even care this much?”
His jaw clenched, his thumb brushing the curve of my cheek with maddening gentleness. “Because you matter to me,” he said simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “More than I can explain, more than you’re ready to hear. But I’ll tell you this—whatever darkness you’re fighting, whatever’s dragging you down, I’m here. I’ll fight it with you. And if I have to, I’ll fight you to keep you here.”
I turned my face away, desperate to hide from the intensity of him. But his hand wouldn’t let me, his thumb catching the stray tear as it slipped down my cheek.
“I don’t know how to let you do this,” I admitted, the words slipping out like a confession I hadn’t meant to make. “I don’t know how to let you in, Wade. Everyone leaves for a better model, a life without me in it.”
His voice was quiet but resolute, a low rumble that felt like a tether in the category four weather warning raging inside me.
“I’m not them,” he said, his tone firm, almost commanding. “And I’m not going anywhere. You’re not pushing me away, no matter how hard you try.”
The silence in Wade’s loft hit me harder than I’d anticipated, settling over me like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating. After years of chasing goals at breakneck speed and dodging every emotion that dared to surface, I finally had nowhere to run—figuratively and literally.
Despite the torrent of tears I’d already shed—hello world, meet the new Niagara Falls—the urge to cry lingered, relentless. It was like shaking a soda can. Even if you twisted the cap back on and gave it a moment, as soon as you opened it, the fizzy chaos would spill out all over again. And here I was, sitting in the aftermath of a life that had been shaken one too many times, wondering if I’d ever stop spilling over.
I flicked on the TV, desperate for a distraction, but the romance show droning on only irritated me. The happy couples, the soft music—it all felt grating. I flipped through the channels until I landed on a home renovation show, usually my go-to for unwinding. Watching walls come down, spaces open up, and something beautiful emerge from chaos has always brought me a strange kind of comfort. But tonight, it felt hollow. The effortless way they built something new only reminded me of how stagnant I felt, sitting there like a failure in Wade’s oversized bed.
There was a time when I’d daydream about spaces of my own—exposed brick, high ceilings, a cozy reading nook tucked by a bay window. But now? Now it just felt like another dream that had slipped through my fingers. No career. No direction. No future. Everything I’d worked for, sacrificed for, was gone. And the one person I’d fought hardest to impress had erased me, too.
That kind of loneliness wasn’t something a show could fix. It settled deep in your chest, a constant, heavy ache that grew louder in the quiet. Even with Wade in the next room, promising he was just a text away, the weight of it all pressed down until it was hard to breathe.
I reached for my phone, the cold metal centering me for a fleeting moment. My thumb hovered over her name in the contact list.
It was the same time of night it always happened. The time I always called her, despite knowing better. Since Boston—since my collapse, since the surgery—it had been over a month. Not once had she reached out. No calls. No texts. Not even a passing word from Beatrix.
My chest tightened, my thumb trembling over her name. Logic told me to stop. She’d made her choice. She didn’t deserve my time or my pain. But the silence around me didn’t care about logic, and my time? My time felt worthless.
Before I could stop myself, I hit the call button.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Each unanswered tone felt like a needle, slowly carving out what little hope I had left. I told myself I’d leave a voicemail, try one last time to reach her. But then, the ringing stopped.
It wasn’t the robotic voicemail. It was static.
“Mom?” My voice cracked, barely a whisper.
The sigh that followed wasn’t unfamiliar. It scraped against my ears, heavy with exasperation—the same sound she made when I messed up a routine or stumbled during practice. The sound of her disappointment was etched into my memory, but hearing it now felt sharper.
“I thought you’d get the message after you stalked me at Beatrix’s competition.”
Stalked.
The word hit harder than I expected, like a slap I hadn’t braced for.
“Callum,” she continued, her tone sharp and weary. “You need to stop this. The calling, the stalking—it has to stop.”
My throat closed, panic rising as I scrambled for something to say, something that might cut through the wall she’d built. “I called to tell you I snapped my Achilles,” I said, the words tumbling out awkwardly. “I’m fine, but my skating career is over.”
Silence. Heavy and suffocating. It stretched between us, the chasm widening with every second.
“Well,” she said finally, her voice void of any warmth. “You made it further than I thought you would.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut. I didn’t know what hurt more—that she’d kept tabs on my progress or that she’d never believed in me to begin with.
“Why are you doing this?” My voice trembled, cracking under the weight of the moment. “Why are you treating me like I don’t matter?”
Another sigh, static punctuating her exasperation.
“I’m happy now, Callum. This life I’m living—it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Can’t you just let me have it? Just let me be happy. Let me live my life. And leave me alone.”
Leave me alone.
Her words were a dagger, sharp and merciless. My breath hitched, the ache in my chest spreading, consuming. My leg throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the hollowness expanding inside me.
The silence that followed spoke volumes. I understood. She didn’t have to say it outright—I wasn’t part of the life she’d built. I wasn’t part of her happiness. I wasn’t wanted.
“I have to go,” she said, her tone final. “Please, stop calling.”
“But, Mom—”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my trembling fingers dialing her number again, desperation overriding reason. But when the call connected, the robotic voice was there to greet me.
“ The number you have called is disconnected. Please check the number and try again .”
The robotic voice mocked me, cold and indifferent. And for the first time, I didn’t have the strength to try again.
A sob ripped out of me, raw and uncontrollable, breaking the silence with a force that startled even me. Before I could think, my hand acted, hurling the phone across the room. It hit the TV with a dull, final thud, the screen splintering into a starburst of cracks. The phone clattered to the floor, the sound reverberating in the stillness that followed.
I stared at the shattered screen, my breath caught in my chest as the reality of what I’d just done sank in. My hand flew to my mouth, a gasp escaping me unbidden. My gaze darted to Wade, who stood frozen in the doorway, his wide-eyed shock mirroring my own.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered, the words spilling out in a frantic, panicked rush. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I-I-I’ll find somewhere to go. I’ll pay for a new one—” My chest heaved as shame crashed over me, a relentless wave. I’d smashed Wade’s TV—the one belonging to the only person who was tolerating me— the one person who promised not to leave.
Wade moved then, slow and deliberate, stepping closer with an almost unnerving calm. His focus wasn’t on the shattered screen but on me. He knelt down in front of me, the crack of his joints breaking the silence.
“Darling,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, like a thread pulling me back from the edge. “What happened?”
His hands reached for mine, and I froze, my body taut as a bowstring. When I looked down, I saw mine trembling. I might as well be holding my vibrator trying to find the off button after being caught in the shameful act. Wade covered my hands with his, and with it the vibrations stopped. Remembering he asked a question, I finally answered with a shake of my head, the words trapped in my throat.
“Darling,” he said again, softer this time, his tone coaxing. “Who did this to you?”
That voice, dark and soothing, was an anchor in the chaos. His thumbs traced slow, deliberate circles over my knuckles, the rhythmic motion unraveling the knot in my chest.
“She still doesn’t want me,” I sobbed, the words breaking free in a cracked whisper.
Wade’s gaze didn’t waver. His eyes, dark and filled with understanding, stayed steady on mine.
“My mom,” I choked out. “She still doesn’t want me. I thought—I don’t know, maybe she would change her mind. But instead, She blocked my number, told me to stop calling. She… she…” The rest stuck in my throat, jagged and sharp, too painful to voice.
Saying it aloud would make it too real. I knew I was a broken record, I knew I had faced this rejection once before… but my head and my heart were at war, one half of me disbelieving that this is what had become of my life, trying to do a dot-to-dot puzzle of where I had been the person she would want to cut out, despite being her son. The other told me to get over it, I knew why she did it, it was the same reason everyone else did.
His jaw tightened for the briefest moment, but his voice remained gentle.
“My darling,” he said, his grip on my hands unwavering. “She doesn’t deserve the title of ‘mom.’ No woman who raises a son only to discard him has the right to that word. Having a family is a privilege, not a right. It’s not a puppy you can just give back to the pound.”
I opened my mouth to protest—maybe to defend her, or maybe to defend myself—but Wade must have anticipated it. He shifted, climbing onto the bed with a grace that belied his size. Carefully, he wrapped me in his arms, his movements cautious and deliberate as he avoided my injured leg propped on its pillow.
He held me close, his chest solid and steady against me. Despite the tears streaking my face and the hollow ache in my heart, I let myself melt into him. His warmth surrounded me, the cedar-and-soap scent of him grounding me as I closed my eyes. The familiar fear—of being too much, of being abandoned—lingered, but it softened in the face of something new. Something like belonging.
“I know you don’t see it now,” Wade said, his voice low and steady, rumbling against my ear. “But you are worth so much more than this. I can tell you this all day long—and I will, because I believe it—but, darling, you need to believe it too. Your worth isn’t tied to a heartless woman who neglected her son. Or to the men who couldn’t see what they had when they had it.
“Your worth isn’t based on the blind opinions of idiots. I’m not blind. My eyes are wide open, and I see you—heightened emotions, hurt, broken pieces and all. I see someone who cares more than anyone, who is artistic and sassy, quick-witted and brilliant. Someone with more potential in his pinky toe than most people have in their entire lives.”
His arms tightened around me ever so slightly, as if willing me to hold together through sheer force. “Again, I can tell you this all day. And I will. But one day, my darling, you’ll believe it too.”
The ache inside me twisted, longing to believe him, to let his words stitch up the wounds that felt so permanent. But history had taught me to be cautious, to expect the worst, to brace for the moment it all came crashing down.