Chapter 11 Calla #2
“He’s got your eyes,” Rook says, quieter now. “Big, full of fire. But he’s got… I dunno. My stubbornness.”
“God help us both.”
We lapse into another moment of silence, this one softer, hazier. A few birds chirp nearby. A breeze picks up and rustles the trees, brushing strands of hair into my face. Rook reaches over and tucks it behind my ear before I can flinch away. I freeze. His fingers linger for just a second too long.
Then he clears his throat and sits back. “Auntie put strawberry mochi in here, by the way. Said you would like ‘em.”
I smile down at the mochi but don’t reach for it yet. “Still sweet on strawberry, huh?”
He shrugs, peeling open his dumpling container. “Only when it’s wrapped in rice dough and doesn’t talk back.”
I hum. “Sounds like your type.”
“You used to be my type.”
My chopsticks pause mid-air. “Used to be?”
Rook smirks. “Mmm. Guess I’ve expanded my palate.”
There’s a beat of silence that stretches too long to be comfortable, but not long enough to be awkward. Then I offer, “I still hate mushrooms. In case you were planning some big romantic fungus-based dinner someday.”
He snorts. “Damn. There goes my portobello proposal.”
“You laugh,” I say, popping a dumpling into my mouth, “but someone actually proposed to me with a soup dumpling once.”
Rook stares. “You’re lying.”
“Swear on your bike.”
He grimaces. “That’s serious.”
“It was in the bar I worked at. Some guy who barely knew me and thought he would save me from my single mother lonelihood…according to him at least.”
Rook lets out a low whistle. “You say yes?”
I shake my head. “I spat it out and said, ‘Wrong sauce.’”
He grins, wide and real. “That’s my girl.”
My chest pinches. It shouldn’t, but it does.
He lowers his chopsticks. “So… you been back long?”
I nod. “A couple weeks. Enough time to remember why I left.”
“And yet here you are.”
“And yet,” I echo, brushing my thumb along the edge of the container, “here I am.”
Rook looks up from his carton, something shadowed in his expression now. “Why’d you leave?”
The question is soft. Not an accusation. Not bitter. Just… quiet. And honest. And too damn heavy.
I look down at the half-eaten dumpling in my hand. “Rook—”
“No note,” he says. “No goodbye. Just gone. Middle of the night, like you were running from a damn fire.”
I sigh, setting my chopsticks down. “I thought I was.”
He stills.
I wipe my hands on a napkin, not because they’re messy, but because I need something to do. “My mom found a pregnancy test. Lost her mind. Dragged me out of bed by my arm like I was some sinner in need of saving.”
His brows draw together. “You were sixteen.”
“I was a disgrace,” I say bitterly. “At least, to them. Didn’t matter that I was terrified. Or that I’d only ever been with one person. I was just—” I cut myself off. Swallow hard. “She shoved me into a car, told my daddy we were ‘fixing it’ before I ruined everything.”
“And he let her?”
“He handed her a Bible and said, ‘bring her back clean.’” My voice cracks on the last word.
Rook’s jaw flexes. He looks like he’s physically holding himself back from something—rage, heartbreak, maybe both.
“I thought I was being kidnapped,” I say, softer now. “Didn’t even get to grab shoes. Didn’t get to say goodbye to you.”
“You were pregnant,” he says slowly. “You were pregnant, and they just—” He exhales like he’s been punched. “Jesus, Calla.”
“I didn’t know what was happening until we were halfway across the state. They told me I had no choice. That I’d be homeschooled. Hidden. That no one could know. And I was too scared to fight them.”
“You were a kid.”
“I was carrying one too.” My eyes sting. “I thought about you every damn day.”
He doesn’t speak.
Not yet.
Just watches me with those storm-gray eyes like he’s trying to hold every word still between us—like they’re too fragile to breathe on.
“I wrote you,” I say. “God, Rook—I wrote you.”
His brows knit. “What?”
“To the clubhouse.” My voice wavers. “I had the address memorized from all those times we snuck around town, and you made that dumb joke about getting mail like a grown-up biker. I sent letters. I tried to tell you.”
He leans forward. “Calla—”
“I told you I was pregnant. That I didn’t know what to do. That I was scared, but I loved that baby already.”
“Jesus Christ.”
I shake my head, tears hot now. “But they never came back. Not one. My mother… she said that meant you didn’t care. That men like you—your kind—don’t stick around once they get what they want.”
His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle twitch.
“She said I’d been stupid. That I’d spread my legs for a boy who’d leave the second things got real. That you were never gonna be a father, just another mistake.”
“Calla—”
“She made me believe you chose not to answer.” I look up, throat tight. “She made me believe you were done with me. That I’d ruined everything by loving you. That you—” My voice breaks. “That you abandoned me.”
Rook is silent, but it’s not the quiet of disbelief. It’s the kind that comes right before something explodes. He scrubs a hand down his face like he’s trying to hold himself together with sheer force.
“Calla.” His voice is hoarse. “I looked everywhere for you.”
My eyes go wide, breath stuck in my throat. But he’s already shaking his head, jaw clenched.
“You were gone. One day you were mine, and the next—fucking vanished. No warning. No note. I drove to your house, the church, the store, your friends'—nothing. Like you’d been erased.” The words are pouring now, ragged and real.
“Your father found me the day after. Told me you were just a summer mistake. Said I should forget you, that you’d already moved on.
Then he shut the whole goddamn place down.
Church boarded up. House empty. It was like they’d been ghosts. ”
Rook looks down, then back up—eyes burning. “I wasn’t gonna forget you. I couldn’t. I was gonna propose, Calla. I had the ring. Fuck, I still have it.”
My lips part, a gasp escaping my lips.
“I loved you. God, I fucking loved you. Thought maybe you’d gotten scared, or needed time, but I waited. I held on for so long, thinking you’d come back. That someday I’d see you again.”
Silence stretches between us like it might snap under the weight of everything unsaid.
He softens finally, eyes tracing my face like it’s still the only map he’s ever known. “I never stopped, Calla. Not once. Not even when it hurt like hell to hope. And I never stopped fucking loving you.”
The words hang in the air like ash after a fire — bitter, burnt, and still smoldering. My throat burns, lips trembling like they’ve forgotten how to form sound. He still has the ring. He was going to marry me.
My chest cracks wide open. Something feral and fragile inside me claws to get out — the girl who sat on the church steps scribbling his name into notebook margins. The girl who traced the lines of his jaw with trembling fingers. The girl who loved him before she even knew what love could ruin.
My hands tremble as I wipe tears from my face. The silence between us stretches and bends, then settles heavy over our shoulders. The stars are brighter now. Like they’re eavesdropping.
My voice cracks when it finally escapes. “I wanna go home.”
Rook’s eyes lock onto mine. And maybe—just maybe—he understands I don’t mean the place I came from. I mean him. I always meant him.
Neither of us says a word as we pack up.
I swipe at my cheeks and blink against the sting in my eyes, trying to pull myself together.
My fingers shake as I fold the picnic blanket.
The same one I used to wrap around my shoulders on church porch nights with him.
It still smells faintly of sandalwood and clove.
Rook doesn’t speak. Doesn’t push. Just folds the takeout bag, seals the half-eaten dumplings, and loads everything into his saddlebag with practiced precision. It’s the silence that kills me—not cold, not distant… just reverent. Like he’s holding the space for me to break.
When everything’s packed, he walks to me slowly.
No swagger, no cocky smirk, just this quiet gravity that pulls at something deep in my chest. He crouches slightly, holding out the helmet.
I hesitate. Then I let him slide it over my head.
His fingers linger on the strap beneath my chin. Gentle. Careful.
He closes his eyes, forehead resting against the edge of the helmet for just a second, like he’s trying to breathe me in. I think he does. I think I do, too.
He says nothing as he swings one leg over the bike. Just taps the spot behind him with two fingers like muscle memory, like he never forgot the way I used to wrap my arms around him and press my face to his back.
I climb on, legs trembling, and slip my arms around his waist. And for a single, splintered heartbeat… I feel sixteen again. The engine rumbles to life.
We ride in silence — no music, no words. Just the wind tangling in my hair, the roar of the road, and the thunder of my heart in my chest as we barrel back toward the cabin I never thought he’d see. Home. Or at least the closest I’ve had to it since I lost him.
The tires crunch slowly over gravel as we pull into the drive. It’s quiet. Still. The kind of quiet that wraps around your ribs and makes it hard to breathe. Rook kills the engine. I don’t move right away. Neither does he.
Then his hands reach for me, steady as ever. He helps me off the bike like I’m fragile. Like I might break if he lets go. And maybe I will. But he doesn’t. His fingers slip into mine — rough and warm, still calloused in all the places I used to trace in secret under the covers of my childhood bed.
We walk to the door together. I don’t know what this is, or what happens next. But he’s still holding my hand when I open it. The cabin smells like home. Like sandalwood and lemon cleaner and something baking — or maybe just memory pretending.