Chapter 22 #2
He whispers, “Hi,” and a swarm of butterflies bats their powdered wings against my ribs.
I can’t afford to let them carry me away—all this infatuation is making me punch-drunk and irrational.
Caleb lives here. Caleb’s daughter is here.
I need to enjoy this chemistry and let it fizzle before I leave, hopefully with Mom by my side.
He bites his bottom lip to fight one of his blinding smiles, and I can’t look away until he does, turning his focus to my screen.
“All right, you have my full attention.”
“Good.” I clear my throat. “I need you to help me with this first question.” I tap the screen with the back of my pen.
Caleb leans forward, squinting. His lips move as he reads, his tongue poking out to wet them, and I add this to the collection of personal details I’m gathering like souvenirs.
But then he speaks, and I’m reacquainted with the other Caleb. “Skip it. That’s a stupid question.”
“I can’t skip it. It’s required,” I say. “And I’m beginning to understand why you needed my help.”
“These questions are a waste of time. The grant is asking for solutions to fire danger. Why am I going to write five pages explaining what fire danger is?”
“I will write it. I just need you to double-check the data I gathered online and give me some bullet points. I’ll make it sound pretty.”
“But why?” Caleb’s posture stiffens.
“Because that’s how fundraising works. Every application begins with making the case, with stats and figures that justify the requested dollars. Is it obvious and tedious? Yes. Can it be avoided? Not if you want the money.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Caleb says, growing frustrated.
“You’re right. But it’s how we have to play the game.”
“Dad,” Abby calls from the family room. “It’s just like school.
All of my homework is repeating the stuff the teacher already knows, like geometry.
I have to regurgitate the rules the teacher taught me and then tell him why something he taught us is true.
‘Why is angle B equal to angle C?’” she says in a low register.
“I don’t know, Mr. Cassein. Maybe because you told me it was? ”
“I hope you don’t have that attitude in class.” Caleb twists in his stool and leans into me as he does.
“I hope you don’t have that attitude with Eden while she’s trying to help you,” Abby parrots. I snort, and Caleb grumbles.
“You two are going to be trouble together,” he says.
“You’re outnumbered, dear. You’re going to have to stop being such a stubborn SOB,” Mom says, and the three of us share a genuine laugh. “And what did I tell you about being nice to my daughter? This silly feud of yours is bad for my health.”
“Fine,” he moans. “Let’s do this stupid task.”
I’m touched to hear Mom stick up for me, even though I am well prepared to handle Caleb—his antagonism, at least. As to whether my heart can handle his affection, well, that’s another question entirely.
I listen to Mom quiz Abby in the background as Caleb and I work, and I’m distracted by a memory I haven’t thought about in years—Mom spending hours helping me catch up on homework, study for tests, and do last-minute projects.
If Mom hadn’t made me her full-time job, I never would have been able to juggle school and ballet.
I’d get home from dance every evening when my peers were going to bed.
Mom would feed me dinner and sit beside me until I finished my schoolwork, soothing my tired meltdowns, quizzing me, or patiently explaining a concept I was too exhausted to understand.
Every beautiful memory with Mom has been tarnished.
But she’s still the woman who drove me across the city to class every day, picked me up each night, and sewed my pointe shoes.
She is still the woman who supported my dream as if it were her own—but made sure I was set up to survive when that dream turned into a fickle fantasy.
And I did survive, even if I didn’t thrive.
I’m working on it, though.
Within an hour, I have the first draft of a compelling application, and Abby has practiced her vocabulary words so relentlessly that we all could recite the definitions and spelling verbatim: oblique, obsolete, brusque, exult, quibble.
“You’re ready, Abby.” Mom places the flash cards on the end table as Caleb and I head into the family room.
“Is anyone hungry for dinner?” Caleb sinks into the sofa beside Abby, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
“As long as it’s not another casserole,” Abby says. “I need a new texture. Please say we can eat something else.”
“Why don’t we go out?” Mom says. “I’ve been cooped up for weeks.”
Caleb looks to me to confirm. We have a wordless conversation in a glance. I shrug, like why not, hoping my mom is ready to trek into town, postaccident.
Going out on a Thursday night offseason means we’re back at Nowhere Saloon; it’s the only place open for dinner. But the booths are comfortable, the food is decent, and I don’t have to cook or eat another donated one-pot meal, so I’m game.
The dining room is as packed as the day I arrived in town, but not with tourists. I recognize many of the guests from the revolving door of Good Samaritans who have stopped by to check on us.
Bob and Carmela are at the bar and immediately stand to greet Mom, shuttling her into the largest, coziest booth in the corner as we follow on their heels. I sneak away to the restroom as a crowd gathers to welcome her back into civilization.
I say hello to a few people as I pass, pausing for inquiries about Mom and my visit—and struggling to remember all their names—before ducking into the dark hallway. The women’s restroom is tucked into an alcove at the back.
When I emerge a few moments later, Caleb is leaning against the far wall, looking even better than he did in my dream last night.
He pushes off, reaching for my hips, pulling me into him, and burying his face against my neck.
I shiver at the scratch of his beard against my skin and his rough palms at my waist, and I have exactly thirty seconds of rational thought before I risk pulling him into the bathroom.
“Where’s Abby?” I ask to remind myself why I shouldn’t.
“She’s talking to Ian.”
“Ian’s here too?” I pull back, and it brings us face-to-face.
“He’s picking up takeout.” He silences me with a kiss.
And that’s it—my thirty seconds are up. Those damn butterflies are flapping their wings so loud I can’t hear the warning bell in my head.
I tug on his shirt to bring him closer, and he obeys.
He’s agreeable when my hands are on him.
Is it possible to miss someone you’ve just met, who also happens to be around all the time?
Because I do, and this kiss is a tonic to all the hours I’ve been forced to keep my distance.
“C’mon, my truck is right outside,” he whispers, tugging me toward the back exit.
“Caleb,” I groan, and he chuckles softly in return, swallowing my next words with a deeper kiss.
“Oh.” The exclamation comes from behind me, barely rising above the rush of blood in my ears. “Oh my.”
I pull back a moment too late, and I’m too embarrassed to turn.
“Shit,” Caleb whispers, dropping his arms from my waist and hanging his head.