44. Callie
CHAPTER 44
CALLIE
T he men are giving each other one of their twin looks. Several times, I’ve noticed them communicating without words. Everyone does it, of course, but they seem to express volumes with just their eyes.
This time, their eyes are sad.
I look back and forth between them. “What is it?”
Miles trails his fingers back and forth over my leg. “We had a friend,” he says. He glances at Max again, as if making sure his brother will be okay with where the conversation is heading.
Max nods. It’s almost imperceptible, but I catch it.
“He was our best friend in elementary school. The three of us did everything together. We used to say we were triplets rather than twins.”
I hope Miles is going to tell me they got in a fight and that’s why they aren’t friends anymore, but the heaviness in his tone warns me that this story is going to be heartbreaking.
“We were still friends in high school, but we had different classes and played different sports, and we hung out with different people.”
When Miles’s pause stretches on, Max takes over. “He got involved with some people he shouldn’t have. He had a girlfriend who was bad news. We suspected his new friends were into some bad stuff, but we thought our friend was too smart to get mixed up in that himself.
“We should have talked to him. We should have asked questions, but we didn’t. We were so busy with our own lives that we didn’t know anything had happened to him until we were sitting in class on a Monday morning and there was an announcement that grief counselors were available because a student had died over the weekend.
“He took a lethal overdose, almost certainly unintentionally. Illegal drugs, smuggled into the country, trafficked by greedy criminals, and provided to him by his new friends.”
“I’m so sorry.” My heart is breaking into a million pieces for the two of them.
Miles’s voice is thick. “We should have seen it coming, and we should have stopped it before it happened.”
“There’s no way you could have known what would happen! It wasn’t your fault.”
“We should have been better friends,” Max says. “That’s what we regret.”
My eyes are filled with tears at the thought of all their pain. I pull Miles into a long hug, wanting to send comfort through my body and into his own. When I break away, I wrap my arms around Max and do the same.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I repeat.
The three of us sit there with our own thoughts, and though the mood is sad and heavy, I’m a little lighter because they’re with me.
We’re all just human, doing our best. Sometimes our best isn’t good enough, and all we can do is try to do better next time. It’s not easy, and it still hurts, but maybe it can hurt a little less if we’re there for one another.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
As Miles nods, there’s a knock on the door.
Max gets to his feet. “I nearly forgot. I ordered room service.”
Miles quickly disappears into the bathroom just before a waiter pushes a cart into the room. I’m assuming that Max ordered dinner for himself, until the waiter leaves and Max uncovers the plates to reveal three different desserts.
“Miles said you didn’t have a chance to have dessert tonight.”
I watched Miles send his brother a message earlier to let him know we were coming back. How did he possibly communicate that much information so quickly?
“Dessert sounds great. What did you get?”
“Double chocolate fudge cake—it’s a classic. I couldn’t pass it up. Passion fruit crème br?lée, and in case you want something lighter, strawberry shortcake. You can take your pick, or we can share all three.”
“No banana pudding?”
Max shudders, and I giggle. Dessert is probably just what we need to lift our moods.
“Would you mind if I take a quick shower first? I’d like to change out of this dress.”
“Of course. Get comfortable.”
Miles is out of the bathroom, so I go in and wash up. I have a long moment of indecision over what clothing to put on after my shower. Last night, my inhibitions dulled by alcohol, I wore the silky pajamas that Marissa added to my luggage. Would the men, especially Miles, think it’s strange if I go back to my modest PJs tonight?
In the end, I decide to go with Marissa’s recommendation, if only because the silky set is actually more comfortable, and I feel prettier wearing them.
When I come out of the bathroom, the men’s eyes tell me they appreciate my choice.
“Feel better?” Miles asks after clearing his throat.
“Yeah.”
“Did you make a decision about your dessert choice?” Max asks.
Good as they all look, my mind has been on the men rather than the sweets. “I’d be happy with any of them. Why don’t you both pick?” When they start to insist I choose first, I interrupt them to say something I was thinking about while I showered.
“You’re both such good, caring men. I really appreciate you coming to the wedding with me. You’ve made it so much easier for me to be here. I feel more at ease with you than I do my own family.”
It turns out they’re not very good at accepting compliments, because they both look uncomfortable at words I hoped would make them feel good.
“I’m glad we could help,” Max says finally. He sets all three desserts on the table and arranges things so we can all gather around and share, with him and Miles sitting in chairs, and me back on the end of the bed.
As we start to eat, Max asks, “Have things always been complicated between you and your mom?”
“Complicated? I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe it.”
“You seem like you don’t want to let her down. I get the idea you don’t want to disagree with her about anything.”
I take a spoonful of the crème br?lée and think this over. My first reaction is that he has this wrong. I disagree with her plenty. But when I think about it, I realize that most of my dissent is only in my head, or shared privately in gripe sessions with Sadie.
“I feel like it’s easier just to agree with her,” I say. “But I suppose there is a need to please built into me.” Saying this aloud triggers a memory. “I was really little when our father left, but I have memories of my mom crying a lot and being sad. I think I just wanted to make her happy.”
Miles nods as he spears a strawberry with his fork. “That makes sense, but you shouldn’t make others happy at the expense of making yourself miserable. You shouldn’t need to hide your feelings.”
Do I do that? I remember yesterday when Mom didn’t like my hair at the roller rink, and Miles spoke up to compliment it while I stayed quiet. Or when Aunt Iris overstepped to the point of being rude, and I just went along with what she was saying, rather than stand up to her.
“I try to be respectful …” I say, not entirely sure that’s actually my motivation for not making waves. “But I suppose you have a point.”
“You shouldn’t be afraid to let people know how you feel,” Miles says. “I’ll bet your family would actually be okay with it.”
“Maybe.”
Max rotates the desserts, so that the strawberry shortcake is now in front of me, and I take a bite. “This is good, but not as good as the crème br?lée.”
Max, who has that dish now, fills his spoon with the custard and holds it up to my mouth. He watches me wrap my lips around his spoon as he feeds me.
“The chocolate cake is the best one,” Max says, tipping his head toward Miles, who cuts off a bite of it with his fork and offers it to me.
Two men feeding me decadent desserts? How is this my life?