Chapter Four Callum
Ianswer a call from an unknown number my phone tells me is from Canada. “Hello?” There’s only one person I know who’d be calling me from there, the same woman I gave my phone number to a few hours ago. But would Georgia be bold enough to call me without texting first?
“Hi,” a feminine, breathy voice returns after a beat. “Is this Callum?”
“Uh, yeah, it is. Georgia?” I reach for the stereo’s remote and turn off my music.
“You sound exactly how I’d imagined,” she replies, her smile audible. “Sorry, is this weird?”
I lick my lips, grinning up at the ceiling of my dining room as I lean back into my chair. “Are you asking if it’s weird that you imagined my voice or that you called before officially giving me your number?”
“Oh god,” she says, her Canadian accent somehow stronger.
It makes my grin burst into a full-fledged smile.
“There is just no right answer to that.” Georgia laughs softly, and I consider asking her to do it again so I can record the sound somehow.
“I’m growing increasingly aware of how nasally my voice is.
It’s not nearly as charming as yours. Please pretend otherwise. ”
“I disagree,” I say. “It’s lovely to hear your voice.”
“So it’s not weird, then?”
“No, it definitely is.” We both laugh. “But I like it,” I add.
“Everything about this has been a bit mad, though, hasn’t it?
I mean, a week ago you were a total stranger who, under any other circumstance, would have probably remained a total stranger.
But now—” I cut myself off, before briefly forgetting to fill the silence. “Anyway, I’m glad you called.”
“You know, since I started talking to you, it’s like I can feel my grandmother around more. I have the sense that she’s very amused by all of this.”
“I said the same thing to my mum yesterday. It’s been ten years since my nan passed, but this week I’ve been thinking of her so much more. It’s been really nice.” I hear a contented, agreeable sigh, followed by a shuffling sound of fabric. “Where are you right now?”
“I just got home. I’m folding laundry so I can use my dining table as a desk instead of a drying rack. My apartment has a washer and dryer, but the dryer part is more hypothetical—it hasn’t worked since I moved in.”
“Do you like your apartment?”
“Not even a little bit,” she answers bluntly.
I breathe out a soft laugh in response, wanting her to continue.
“I mean, I’m grateful to have a safe place to lay my head, don’t get me wrong, but that’s about it.
The appliances are older than me, I have to slam my body weight against the front door to click the lock into place, and there’s only one window, which is parallel with the sidewalk. I see a lot of shoes.”
“And do you, um, like shoes?” I ask.
Her giggle is effervescent, reminding me of the first sips of expensive champagne. “Um,” she says, still laughing, “not any more than the next girl, I guess?”
I run my palm down my face. “Sorry, I have no idea why I asked that . . .”
“No, I liked it. I’m glad you’re more awkward than your emails let on.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask, releasing a self-effacing sort of laugh that doesn’t come close to competing with hers. “Is that right?”
“Absolutely! You’d be far too intimidating if you looked the way you do and were charming all of the time.”
I fuss my bottom lip before it curls upwards on one side. Fuck, this woman has me on her hooks. “And how do I look, Georgia?”
“Oh, please,” Georgia admonishes me playfully, “don’t act coy. Phoebe nearly spat out her wine when I showed her your picture.”
I’m not usually one to turn down a compliment, but Phoebe’s opinion isn’t the one I’m after. “But what did you think?”
“Well, Callum.” She pauses, releasing a soft breath. “My first thought was that you are very, very handsome. And then I thought it’s a shame you live so very, very far away . . .”
I sigh, nodding, as I scrape my fingers over the wood grain of my table. “Yeah, I’ve had similar thoughts.”
“Aww, you think I’m handsome, Callum?”
I love the way my name sounds when she says it and that she keeps using it. “Very, very handsome,” I tease. “No, but, really, you are stunning.”
She lets out a small sound of acknowledgement, something between a hum and a breath. “Will you do me a favour?”
The question catches me off guard, so I stumble through my next words. “Oh, sure? What’s that?”
“Can you dial the accent down a little bit? I’m blushing brighter than Graham’s hair over here.”
“You’re flirtier on the phone than over email,” I tell her, chuckling under my breath. “I like it.”
“Yes, well, I don’t like to leave a paper trail.”
“No? Why’s that?”
“Because I inevitably end up rereading every message I send over and over again until I regret everything I’ve ever said. With phone calls or face-to-face communication, I can pretend I said nothing embarrassing whatsoever.”
“You’ve been nothing but funny and sweet and intriguing,” I assure her. Personally, I’m glad we met via email. I imagine I’ll enjoy revisiting them someday.
“Hmm. I’ve never been called intriguing before.”
“Not to your face, maybe. But I’m positive you have been.”
“There you are, being charming again.”
“I just needed a minute to warm up, Georgia.”
“Oh boy, oh boy . . .”
“What?” I say, laughing at her tone and the repeated phrase.
“Hearing you say my name is dangerous, Doc.”
I choose to ignore the nickname, but appreciate its cheeky delivery all the same. “Why’s that, Georgia? More blushing?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I like the way you say mine too,” I admit. “Please keep saying it.”
“I might force you to read all of your emails to me, Callum . . .”
“I’ll do whatever you’d like me to, Miss Anderson.”
She snorts at that, and my smirk turns into a smile. A snort is the most endearing noise in the whole world, from her. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! You’ve taken things too far. That was damn near pornographic.” Her last word is smothered by a giggle. “Please, have some decorum.”
“All right, fine. Lesson learned. I’m dialling it back.” A laugh tumbles out of my chest, low and hearty. “How was your day?”
After that, we talked for hours. I mindlessly wandered from my seat at the dining table to my sofa, then to my bedroom.
I put her down on the dresser while I undressed, then hauled her into bed with me, plugging the phone into the wall so I could keep listening to her describe the documentary series she finished watching last night in great detail.
Our conversation flowed effortlessly, as if we were two old friends catching up. Whenever there was a brief pause or the chance to call it a night, I refrained. I wanted to keep talking to her, more than I’ve ever wanted to sleep.
“Oh my god, Callum, the time,” Georgia says in a yawn. “It’s what, two there?”
“Something like that . . .”
“Callum!”
“What?” I say, chuckling as I adjust the pillow under my head. “I like talking to you.”
“Your morning routine starts in three hours.”
“I can miss a day.”
“I thought you said you were obnoxiously strict about it?”
I try not to yawn, but I do, and I don’t disguise it well. “Meh,” I say as punctuation to the sound. “Not always.”
“No, I should let you sleep. I’m sorry . . .”
“Georgia, I promise you that I can tell time. There’s no reason for you to apologise.”
She breathes out a laugh. “Well, okay. Still, you have to cut me off if we call again, okay? I have a tendency to ramble.”
I can tell. I like it. An alarming amount. “Would you want to call me again tomorrow?” I ask. “Same time?”
There’s a pause, enough time for a shy, pretty smile that I can somehow perfectly see in my mind’s eye. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Great. I’ll go ahead and save your number, then.”
Georgia huffs a tired, relaxed laugh that momentarily makes me forget she’s not here next to me, weighing down the other side of the mattress. “Good night, Callum.”
“Good night, Georgia.”
For nine silent seconds, nobody hangs up the call.
“Are you still there?” she asks tentatively, followed by the soft sounds of a feathery duvet being squeezed.
I close my eyes, imagining her lying down in her bed. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
She laughs again, in the same sleepy way. “You’re not going to hang up?”
“I don’t think I have the heart to.”
Georgia sighs, the sort of sigh that says, This is bad news.
I almost reply, I know, aloud. But before I have the chance to say anything further, she whispers another gentle good night and ends the call.
I save her number as “Georgia the Good Egg,” place my phone on my nightstand, and turn off my bedside table lamp.
“Damn,” I whisper, lying on my back as I stare into the dark abyss of my bedroom. I lay a hand over my chest and feel my heartbeat kick against my palm.
This is the good kind of trouble, to be sure.
Why does the first woman in years to make me feel like this have to live an ocean away?
It’s not as if my life is particularly moveable.
I’m only licensed to work in the UK. There are undoubtedly options and avenues I could take to get licensed abroad, but it’s not easy.
Not to mention, none of those options allow me to continue working at the clinic my grandmother founded and my family has continued to operate for the past sixty years.
Taking over the practice from my mum, who took it over from her mum, has been my one and only goal for a very long time.
I’m not particularly interested in practising medicine outside of this community, where my patients are also my neighbours.
Sure, sometimes boundaries blur or my frustrations heighten, like when I’m at the local pub and see a few too many men I’ve prescribed blood-pressure medicine drinking their third or fourth lager.
Or, when I’m at mum’s for a Sunday roast and, before we’ve managed to have a bite, the telephone rings and suddenly I’m being sent out on a house visit as my plate sits wrapped in aluminium foil on the counter.
Would I even consider moving, if it came to it? Truthfully, I don’t know if I would.
I love my town. I love this old, drafty cottage I saved up for and bought last year. I love the impractically small doorframes, wooden beams, and original fireplaces in each and every room. I’ve never imagined my life unfolding anywhere else but here in Lambley.
But maybe Georgia has? Maybe she’d rather like to get out of her apartment with the broken dryer and shoe-view window.
There is a strong likelihood I’m getting way ahead of myself, as I so often do. Even still, I let my tired mind wander until I find myself drifting between sleep and thought with a quiet hopefulness stirring in my chest.
Lena has been lecturing me about love, and most other things, for as long as I can remember.
My older sister is convinced that we all get one great love in our lifetime.
She believes in fate, that who we will fall for is predetermined by the universe, far out of our control.
So, I’m set on finding the one, as ridiculous as it may be.
Stubbornly, I’ve been unwilling to settle.
It’s why, no matter how difficult it was at the time, I ended things with my ex three years ago.
I knew in my heart of hearts that she wasn’t that destined person for me.
That she deserved to find that life-altering, course-correcting sort of love for herself too.
And maybe it’s daft to even think it, but I cannot help but wonder if Georgia could be that person for me.
Daft or not, it’s the thought I hold on to as I fall asleep.