TWENTY-SIX
JORDIE
I’m crouched in front of the table, rearranging fairy bread like the structural integrity of this party hinges on it.
The cheap plastic table wobbles under the weight of sausage rolls, party pies, and an extremely out-of-place plate of bao buns—because they’re Callum’s favorite.
Because he misses his mum’s cooking. And because after watching thirty-one YouTube tutorials and cyber-bonding with a Taiwanese grandma named Auntie Qing, I made a passable batch.
So, they’re staying. Kid-party-theme be damned.
Which, yes, is intentional.
A few weeks ago, in that offhand way Callum said things that meant more than he realized, he mentioned he never really had a birthday party growing up. No balloons, no party hats, no games that ended in minor injuries and red cordial stains.
Just cake. If that.
So now, I inspect the fairy lights that are crisscrossed above me. I nearly died twice hanging those damn things. The ladder swayed. The ground was uneven. Leith filmed it.
I adjust the plates on the table. Stare. Adjust them back. Scowl. Crouch. Eye-level with a tray of fairy bread. Still not right. The sprinkles are . . . wrong? Uneven?
I’m mid-debate on whether it’s unethical to scrape and re-sprinkle when the front door creaks.
Oh, shit.
Suddenly I’m hyper-aware of everything—the unicorn pinata swinging like it’s possessed, a rogue magpie eyeing the apple bobbing tub, a variation of Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey taped crooked on the fence—and the fact that I’ve spent fifteen minutes arguing with myself over sprinkles.
I just want it to be perfect. And I may have gone too hard on the nostalgia, but honestly? He deserves the kind of stupid, joyful mess he never got.
I grab the party hat off the table and slap it on my head.
Elastic. Snap. Right against my jaw. “Ow—fuck.”
I wince. Adjust it. Try to look like someone with dignity and not a person who nearly cried over sprinkle distribution.
The sliding door scrapes open.
Callum steps out into the backyard, pausing just inside the golden spill of fairy lights. One hand in his pocket, shirt slightly wrinkled while taking it all in. The lights. The food. The games. The decorations.
And finally . . . me.
Pretty sure the neighborhood apartment complex with a full view of my backyard is twelve seconds away from calling the police. Or a mental institution. Honestly, either feels valid.
Leith is doubled over, wheezing. “I—” he gasps, pointing at Callum. “You—inhaled half the tub—” Another peal of laughter rips out of him.
Callum’s sitting back on his heels, water slicking his hair back, dripping slow down the sharp line of his jaw. His garbage bag poncho clings to him. Even so, he looks infuriatingly good.
“Your apples have the buoyancy of bricks,” he deadpans, as if that’s the most rational explanation for why he lost the apple-bobbing contest.
Leith’s dying beside me, trying—and failing—to catch his breath. “You look like a demented seal.”
I’m on my knees in the grass, laughter bursting out so hard I topple sideways. “God, stop! You’re gonna kill me.”
“You were right to make this the last game, Jords,” Leith wheezes. “Way more fun after three bottles of wine.”
We peel off our garbage-bag ponchos, dumping them in a soggy heap beside the hose. I grab towels from the patio chair and toss one to Leith. He catches it one-handed, already distracted by his phone which, to be fair, has not stopped buzzing since we played Pin-the-Scalpel-on-the-Gynecologist.
“Here,” I say, handing the other towel to Callum just as he tips his head back, mid-shake.
He grins, dragging the towel over his face. “Thanks.”
I towel my hair until the damp waves start sticking up in defiance.
I’m busy muttering about it when his hand is suddenly on my hair—slow, unhurried. Like he thought about it. Decided no. Did it anyway.
His fingers catch on a strand as he plucks something out.
“You’ve got—” his voice is low, that velvet-dipped register he uses when he’s not paying attention to how he sounds, “—grass.”
Another piece. Another light touch. His knuckles skim my temple. And stay.
Then, almost lazily, his hand trails down, fingertips ghosting the curve of my cheek, tracing a path to my jaw, tucking a damp curl behind my ear.
“There,” he says, almost smiling. “You look less like a drowned rat.”
My throat works around something that refuses to become words. How do you say don’t stop without saying it?
I step back instead. Coward.
“Leith,” I call out, forcing a lightness into my voice, “Come help me get the cake.”
Leith glances up from his phone, pockets it fast. “Yeah.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the way Callum flexes his fingers—once, twice—like he can still feel where I was.
Inside, the kitchen light is soft, dim. I grab the cake from the fridge. It’s a lopsided, barely frosted mess. But we’re calling it rustic because disaster hurts my feelings.
I strike a match. Nothing. Strike another. Still nothing. I’m muttering a prayer to the patron saint of party candles when Leith’s phone vibrates again.
“Answer it,” I mutter. “It’s been going off all night.”
“Nowhere near drunk enough to deal with this shit.”
“Your dad still playing hardball?”
His snort is sharp. “Try swinging a sledgehammer while I’m tied to the fence.” Another buzz. Leith’s jaw ticks. He pulls the phone out, fires off a reply, and puts it face down on the counter. “It can wait.”
I nod. Flame flares finally, catching the wick.
I’m about to pick up the cake when Leith’s hand catches my hand.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing, Mouse. I’m . . .” A pause. His thumb brushes my wrist, “. . . glad.”
“Glad about what?”
“Seeing you be Jordie again.” He looks at me in that “brother-who’s-watched-you-bleed” kind of way. “It’s been a long while.”
Leith lifts his glass with a lazy grin. “To Callum. Bet you didn’t picture thirty-five like this.”
We’re tucked beneath the old tree, our table cluttered with wine glasses and half-eaten cake.
“Honestly? No.” Callum raises his glass. “But . . . to you guys.” He glances my way, gaze lingering. “Especially Jordie, for pulling this off.”
A lump builds in my throat. I focus on the breeze picking up, carrying the sharp salt of the ocean with it, the sound of crashing waves from beyond the fence.
“To us,” I say, lifting my glass.
The clink echoes, and we drink.
Probably a bad idea, considering I’ve been nauseated non-stop. But I drain the rest of my wine anyway, too careless, and fully aware it might come back up.
Around us, the backyard’s a mess—scattered lollies from the pinata, crumpled napkins, confetti in the grass. The kind of chaos that says the night was good. Full. The kind of mess you don’t rush to clean up because it means it mattered.
Callum hums around a mouthful of cake.
Then he looks at me and smiles. That boyish, unguarded grin that’s pure joy.
If I can give him that smile, I’d throw this ridiculous party again in a heartbeat.
There’s a sharp, jarring buzz. Leith flinches. Doesn’t answer. Just stares at his phone like he can bully it into silence through sheer billionaire willpower.
“Mate,” Callum says. “Just answer it. It’s fine.”
Leith shakes his head, “It’s all good.”
Another buzz.
“Leith.” Callum’s voice stays calm, but it lands firmer—doctor voice. The one that makes people comply before they realize they’ve been ordered.
“Shit. Sorry.” Leith pushes off the chair, phone gripped tight like he’s resisting the urge to snap it in half. “I’ll take it inside.” He’s already walking off when he picks up, voice low and clipped—nothing like the easy grin from moments ago. “What is she offering? Can I trust her?”
The backyard feels quieter now, the kind of silence that pulls everything inward—until all I can hear is my own heartbeat.
I shift, fidgeting with my empty wine glass. “Uh . . . okay. I got you something.”
That earns a small, curious smile. “Did you?”
I push my chair back. The legs scrape softly against the pavers.
Stand. Smooth my palms over the front of my dress. Stall for three seconds.
I move behind the tree.
He follows.
I crouch and retrieve the paper bag tucked at the base of the trunk—plain kraft brown, red string handles, a tiny gold star sticker sealing the top because apparently my subconscious thinks I’m running a primary school fete.
“Here,” I say, holding it out to him. “Happy birthday.”
Callum takes the bag, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second.
“Jordie.” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Thank you.”
He loosens the red string. Peels back the tissue paper—blue and silver, because I panic-bought whatever looked vaguely celebratory and didn’t require me to make eye contact with the shop assistant.
His hand sinks into the bag, rummaging.
“It’s no bottle of single malt whiskey from the year you were born,” I blurt, because silence is apparently my mortal enemy, “that Leith ‘had hand-stitched into a leather case and lowered into a mahogany box carved by, like, blind monks in the Highlands or whatever.’ But—” I inhale. “I hope you like it.”
He pulls out the book, fingertips brushing over the worn cover, frayed spine, and faded green lettering. Dubliners.
“Jordie . . .” His voice catches on my name. “This must have cost a lot.”
“It’s a 1944 edition.” I clear my throat, fidgeting. “Don’t worry. I haggled. But it’s something that I know you’d never buy for yourself.”
I press on; the words tumbling out. “There’s this story in there. A Little Cloud. It’s about Chandler who’s stuck in Dublin, dreaming about more. His friend comes back from London, all successful and just talks about everything. Cities, people, whole countries.”
I bite my lip, glancing away. “Anyway. Chandler just sits there. Thinking he’ll never be that. Not worldly enough, not brave enough. He’s just . . . caught. Between what he wants and what he has.”
My throat works. “I don’t know. I read it, and it felt like something you’d get. That whole ‘being-caught-between-two-worlds’ thing.”
Callum doesn’t speak. Just keeps looking at the book like it’s more than paper and ink. He flips through. Careful. Fingers tracing the tabs, eyes catching on my handwriting in the margins.
“You annotated it,” he says with quiet surprise.
“There are a few pages where I might’ve argued with Joyce.” My lips twitch. “I marked the parts that made me laugh. Made me cry. Those that made me think of you.”
Silence stretches. And it’s just the waves. The faint rustle of leaves.
For a second, he just stares down at the book. Then he closes it, hands lingering on the cover before lifting his gaze to mine.
We’re standing too close now. Close enough that it feels as though the whole night—every laugh, every glance, every small touch—has been pulling us here.
I’m noticing everything about him again for the first time and all over. The feeling of rereading a favorite book and stumbling on a line I could’ve sworn wasn’t there.
Time stretches thin, snagging on every detail—the curve of his mouth, the way his breath brushes mine. The fairy lights catch in his hair, turning the dark strands copper at the edges. His eyes glow warmly in the soft light, flecked deep brown, sunlight trapped behind glass.
There are light creases at the corners of his eyes I’ve never noticed before, evidence that he’s been smiling more. And stupidly, I wonder if maybe . . . just maybe, I have something to do with that.
His gaze drops. To my mouth, to the line of my throat when I swallow. Like he’s measuring the distance, weighing something he doesn’t quite have the words for.
As if he wants to use his lips for something.
Say something.
Do . . . something.
Instead, he wets them.
And my eyes drop, helpless. Follows the motion.
His mouth is so close. Slightly parted.
And if I just leaned in—
“Yeah, well, tell her that’s not happening,” Leith’s sharp voice cuts through, the sliding door scraping open.
And just like that, the moment slips.
I step back, breath hitching, eyes snapping to the cake.
“Hold the door, Leith!” I call out.
Behind me, Callum exhales. Rough. “Jordie . . .” My name sounds different in his voice all of a sudden.
I don’t turn. Don’t trust myself to.
“I need to get the cake inside before the frosting liquefies.” The words scrape out tight and shaky.
I practically bolt for the door, cake balanced in trembling hands. Leith barely glances up as he shifts just enough to slide the door shut behind me.
The kitchen is dim. Quiet. Except for my own ragged breathing.
I set the cake down too hard. Brace both arms on the counter.
My chest aches. As if I forgot how to breathe and remembered all at once.
Too close, Jordie. Too fucking close.
It’s deep in the night by the time I finish stacking the last dish.
Hours since they left. Hours since that almost-moment I can’t stop replaying.
The backyard’s clean. Leftovers packed away. Rubbish bagged up.
I should lie down. Go to sleep. At least try to.
Instead, I drift to my bookshelf. Stare at it. Wonder if the insomnia’s still the pill or just Callum this time.
My hands make quick work as I start pulling books down, the familiar weight of them a faint comfort. Before I know it, I’m kneeling on the floor, surrounded by stacks.
I sort them—author, color, genre. Faster. Frantic. As if some perfect order might settle the chaos in my chest as I put them back on the shelf. But no matter how I try to arrange them, it doesn’t work. Nothing fits the way it should.
Especially not Callum.
I look at the clock.
3:07 a.m.
I take the books off the shelf again.