Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Tom
The taxi drops me in front of Calvin's villa, a strange mix of nostalgia and discomfort hitting me all at once. Years have passed, but it feels like time has frozen here. Everything looks exactly the same as I remember it.
A minimalist concrete bunker of a mansion—music studio and garage below, living quarters above.
The blindingly white walls have been repainted and the gate is new, but that’s about it, nothing else has changed.
It's Arcadia Lite; half the size, double the crazy. But hey, at least it’s my kind of crazy.
Two chunky dogs sprint to the gate, barking and baring their teeth. They don’t recognize me, my scent long gone from this place.
While I wait at the gate, I glance up and down the street.
Big houses, shiny fast cars in every driveway. Rich people. Old money, new money— doesn’t matter, it’s all the same fucking paper.
A sudden noise snaps my attention back to the house. Calvin’s in the doorway, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a zebra-print robe that hangs loosely off his shoulders.
He looks like the unhinged party cousin from every ’90s sex comedy ever made.
Calvin calls the dogs back, then opens the gate with the remote.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk down the driveway.
God, I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to see a familiar face until now.
I jog up the marble steps to the front door.
Calvin’s robe is wrinkled and stained, his oversized aviators barely hiding the hangover in his eyes. I can smell the alcohol from miles away.
“Callie Coconut,” I read aloud, grinning at the bold font on the waistband of his baby-blue underwear.
He slips a hand inside for a quick, unapologetic, adjustment.
“McKenna!”
He growls my name in a deep, primal roar.
I crash into his hairy chest as he squeezes the air right out of my lungs.
“Jesus, you smell like kerosene,” I grunt.
“Yeah, uh…we had a little afterparty here last night. Sorry, man. You’re in rehab, this can’t be great for you.”
I sigh. That label—addict—has been stamped across my forehead ever since the cardiac arrest. It’s like the only lens the world sees me through.
The truth is, I don’t even miss drinking. Or using. Not once since that night I smashed my guitar to pieces. Not even at that barbecue with Yosh’s friends was I tempted to take the bottle. Didn’t care then, don’t care now.
And standing here, with Calvin practically sweating rum through his pores, I feel more disgust than temptation.
I suppose that's a good sign.
“I really don't care,” I finally say.
Calvin eyes me suspiciously.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Tom McKenna?”
“No, seriously, man. I feel better. My head is clearer. It’s real.”
We move through the house to the pool deck.
Calvin’s villa is located on a hillside in Palm Oasis, a gated community resort. The massive pool still occupies more than half the garden, surrounded by a wooden deck and several lounge areas. Perfect for doing absolutely nothing all day.
I chuckle at the flamingo floatie drifting in the water, a red lace thong hanging around its neck.
The DJ booth is at the far end of the pool.
We’ve spent countless nights there mixing beats and drinks, half the island dancing in the pool, with the police eventually shutting the party down.
Life felt good then. Wild, yes. But amazing.
Calvin’s always given me a refuge from the family firm, and I wonder if that's what he did this time too. After all, he's the one who convinced Jay to get me here.
And you know, Calvin might be a bit of a himbo, but he did the smart thing by leaving all our shit behind and starting fresh here in the Caribbean.
I didn’t have that option.
Jay had wanted me close. And back then, I was still a teenager, legally under his thumb.
It’s bizarre to think about it now. I had two children of my own while he still had custody over me.
One of the dogs nudges my leg, then suddenly jumps on me. They're so much heavier than I am that I stagger back a step, laughing as I wrestle the enthusiastic beast off my chest, giving its shoulders a few solid pats.
“By the way,” Calvin says. “Meet Bella and Gordo. They keep the place safe. I taught them to open the door from the inside when I’m too wasted to find the keyhole. Just for me, of course. Wicked, right?”
I chuckle. “Sorry, Call, but those dogs look like they’d switch sides the second someone throws a sausage over the fence.”
Calvin bursts out laughing. He hugs both dogs as they happily lick his face.
“You’re probably right. But they’re still lovely. Aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
I rub my eyes and I can’t help but smile.
I’m not sure if I still fit in this scene, but I don’t mind watching it play out.
Calvin heads back inside and returns with two bottles of water. He tosses one to me and we sit down in the lounge chairs.
“So, Arcadia,” he begins. “You like it in that cult of calm? What do you even do all day?”
I twist the cap off my bottle, taking a slow sip.
“The place is alright. Honestly, most of the time, I do absolutely nothing.”
Calvin raises a brow mid-sip. “Wait, what? Aren’t you supposed to be doing… something? Work on yourself, getting sober?”
I give him a look, flicking both hands up.
“Mate, I haven’t had a drink in three months. That’s a quarter of a year. Have you looked at yourself lately?”
He laughs. I don’t.
I huff under my breath. Getting sober. Everyone thinks I'm like my father, drunk by sunrise so he could keep his hands steady enough for dock work.
Sure, I had my patterns, but I’d always been careful not to become like him. Well, physically addicted, at least. As for everything else? Fine.
Dad got himself thrown off the pier, I ended up face-down on the filthy floor at Tarik’s Shawarma.
Maybe the people around me had a point. But then again, Calvin and plenty of other McKennas are heavy drinkers too. Yet somehow, I’m the only one who got an intervention.
Whatever. At least I’m in a better place now.
Calvin looks at me with a flash of regret. I pat his knee to let him know it’s all fine.
“I have daily meet-ups with Yosh,” I begin, feeling a little awkward bringing him up to Calvin.
“Usually in the morning, an hour or two at most. Nothing too intense. We just… talk. Not always about heavy stuff. Sometimes we just have conversations, and things come up naturally. If they don’t, that’s fine too.
We hang out, he listens. And then he sort of nudges me toward things I haven’t looked at before.
Makes me think. He helps me see things differently. ”
I smile, thinking about the time we spent together.
That horrible first sit-down. The night I cried my eyes out on the beach. Surfing. Flamingos. Hanging out with his friends. That charming ruin of his place. All our conversations.
And then it all starts coming out.
“Yosh is really good at what he does. He’s smart. He reads these boring books every day and then dumps weird facts on me, and somehow we end up philosophizing about it.” I scoff, shaking my head. “Just…talking. Proper conversations. Not surface-level shit.”
I laugh a little.
“He’s patient. I mean, you have to if you need to handle me, right?
He teaches yoga and meditation, and he’s insanely curious—about people, ideas, the way things work.
He asks questions most people wouldn’t even think to ask.
Oh, and he does acupuncture. You know, where tiny needles go into pressure points to help rebalance your body. It’s so fascinating, Cal.”
I don’t know why I’m still talking, but I can’t seem to stop.
“He’s got a sharp tongue too. Like me, I suppose. Difference is, he actually thinks before he speaks. And he surfs. We both do. He grows his own herbs for healing and teas. And did you know he has this huge collection of colorful crystals that he—”
Calvin cuts me off with a grin. “Yeah, I know. The guy is a weirdo.”
My fist immediately finds his shoulder.
“You’re the fucking weirdo. Look at you, zebra robe, hungover at noon, looking like a cheap extra from a softcore no one gets hard to.”
Calvin’s hands go up. “Sorry, mate. I know the guy, he’s got his own way of doing things. Thought we could have a laugh about it. Clearly not.”
I let it slide. No need to drown a hungover idiot in his own pool.
“How do you know Yosh?”
“He’s friends with my ex, Tiffany. God, don’t make me talk about her.”
“Oh, yeah? I actually met Tiffy the other day. Nice girl. Chatters a lot. I totally get why you two were a thing.”
“You met her? For real?” Calvin’s eyes light up a little too fast for someone who supposedly doesn’t want to talk about it. “Did she mention me?”
“Nope. Didn’t bring you up.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” He presses the cold water bottle against his face, then his neck. A second later, he pulls out a tiny pocket fan from somewhere inside his disgusting robe.
“Careful if I were you,” he says over the whir of the fan. “She’s got a thing for us strawberry blondes.”
“Yeah, not gonna happen, bro,” I grin, tipping the last drops out of my bottle.
Then I stand up, crush the empty plastic bottle in my hand, and walk over to where Calvin’s stretched out on the couch like a drunk king.
“I’m heading down to the studio. My fingers are itching to create something.”
I didn’t come to Palm Oasis to relax. I came here to remember who the hell I am.
Calvin spends the afternoon by the pool, which means the studio is mine.
I don’t mind as it gives me the space to work through rough voice memos and scribbled MIDI sketches.
The first few hours are a bit of trial and error. Every chord progression I play, every beat I built feels close, but it just doesn’t quite hit the sweet spot.
Inspiration has always been my best friend and my worst enemy, showing up whenever it pleases and disappearing just as fast.
But by late afternoon, something changes.