3. CALLUM
3
CALLUM
Fresh out of the shower after a run with Liam, I’m putting my clothes away from earlier, listening to Liam talk about the new book he’s reading and annotating for Emerson.
He’s been buying books to give her for three years. He wouldn’t shut up during our run, asking if I think George should ship them to him.
“Speak of the bloody devil, it’s George. Video chat,” Liam calls out.
I walk over, lying on my stomach next to Liam on my bed. Our feet dangling off the edge of the king-sized mattress. If anyone were to walk in, they’d think we were two teenage girls braiding each other’s hair.
Funnily enough, the three of us used to do that. Well, this. Lying in bed or on the floor during uni. Talking for hours, and every so often, when our hair was grown out, George would braid it.
We always ragged on him about being too good at it. He’d simply smile. All cheeky and boyish.
Then, one weekend, Beatrix Archer (his now wife) was visiting. Beatrix was on the couch while George was in the kitchen, fixing her a glass of red wine. When he returned to the sofa, he shifted his body behind hers, knees on either side of her body as she sat between them. Big brown eyes and dark lashes fluttering up at him, she gave him a pouty face and asked, “Braid it, please.”
He was whipped—he’s always been wrapped around her finger—and braided her hair without hesitation. From the opposite couch, my eyes watched as he meticulously weaved strands of her long brown hair. Rubbing his fingers to massage the hair after he finished and tied it off.
I told Liam about my discovery when he got home from physical therapy that night.
I’ve always appreciated a girl’s hair braided down her back, pulling on it to tilt her head up to me in a kiss or—I stop my train of thought when an image of Chloe pops in my head.
Liam swipes right on the call.
“Oi! George! We were talking about you.”
“Of course you bollocks were. What about me?” He flicks his brows.
“Trying to figure out if we can get you out here for a short holiday.”
George runs a hand down his face. “Let me talk to the queen, and we can see what we can come up with.” He pauses. “Cally, heard you had a little run-in with a certain someone’s best friend.”
I shoulder bump Liam. “Wasn’t me.”
“States,”—Liam’s nickname for Emerson—“Told Beatrix.” Which means my sister also knows. Great. Not that it means anything, but I know I won’t be able to live it down. “Was she fit?”
Liam’s arching a brow at me through the camera. George mirrors him and chuckles.
Anyone with eyes would know Chloe Henry is fit. “Yeah.”
“Scale zero to Beatrix.”
“I’m not comparing her to your wife.”
“You wouldn’t be. That’s why she’s on the right of the spectrum.”
I sigh.
“Oh, come on. I’m not there, so it’s not fair.” George’s phone dings.
“Sent you her social media,” Liam tells him.
He’s seen her social media? Why didn’t even think to search for her after I left Emerson’s?
Maybe because you aren’t the social media type. My Instagram has a total of three posts, all circa almost a decade ago.
George laughs. “She’s got stripper tits. No wonder he was drooling over her.”
“I was not.” I sound like a child.
“Cally, remember that time in school.” These stories never end well. The three of us were fuck boys, the easiest way to put it. George finishes by recounting a story of a weekend when I discovered whiskey, drank copious amounts, and then drew a picture of my dream girl—a stick figure with circles for boobs. They were disproportionate to her impractical figure—I’m not one with the arts—and they thought it was the funniest thing ever. Making fun of me, saying I’d end up married to a girl with stripper tits. “Liam, would she fit the criteria?”
“Don’t look at me!” he gripes. “I’m not commenting on Emerson’s friends.”
George and I both scoff at the same time.
“Uh, mate. Natalie?” George asks.
“That’s different .”
“It’s not,” George says, creating tension in the room that even the best butcher in London couldn’t cut through. “Better be happy that Bea is in the bathroom because she is ready to ring your neck.”
“Piss off,” Liam says to George.
George cracks a joke and when he laughs I realize how much I miss him. I miss the three of us together. His phone tumbles out of his hand, landing on his dark chest.
“Are you shirtless?” Liam asks George.
“When is he not?” I ask Liam.
“It’s eleven on a Friday with my wife . Of course, we are shirtless. Plus,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“What are you so cheeky about?” I ask .
Beatrix comes running out of the bathroom. He taps the screen to switch the camera around to show us her. “You did not just tell them. I’m barely five weeks.”
“Killer babe, you just told them.”
Her jaw drops. Beatrix clutches the towel around her tighter, a sparkle shines off her enormous ring. “Wait, you didn’t. . .you hadn’t. . . fuck .”
I look over at Liam. We stare at each other momentarily, trying to understand what is happening.
Five weeks.
Beatrix does have this glow to her.
Tell us something.
I mouth to Liam Beatrix is pregnant. Liam stares at me with amazement, a smile inching up the right side of his face.
We both turn our attention back to the video.
“Tell us what?” Liam plays dumb.
George is going to be a dad.
The new mom and dad glance at each other.
“I’ve got good swimmers!” George cheers.
Beatrix rolls her eyes. “I’m pregnant,” she confirms.
There are a few rounds of congratulations from both Liam and me, and we’re so excited for you. Beatrix thanks us, then leaves the room.
“Cannot believe you are going to be a dad,” Liam says.
“Me either. Crazy, right?”
“At least one of us has our love life figured out.”
“You will, and then that’ll leave Cal.”
Then that’ll leave Cal , the comment echoes in my head.
I like my life alone. Living, unless I’m here, by myself at age thirty, with a great job and the best friends.
But is it enough?
I try to convince myself that it’s enough, and most of the time, it’s the truth. Nights like these, though, it’s a lie .
Being single is a decision I made. I know if I wanted to be in a relationship, I could find someone easily. I’ve never had an issue finding someone to take home on the days I feel the most alone.
The difference is that I haven’t wanted more than that. I don’t want to find someone, tether myself to them, only to fail at being who they want me to be. What if they can’t love me for me?
That’s all I ever did growing up. Failed one expectation after another.
I’m seven years younger than my youngest older brother. Immediately, I was thrown into Jack and Harrison’s shadows. While I didn’t receive their hand-me-downs, my life was a hand-me-down to theirs.
They played football? I played football.
They ate brussels sprouts? I ate brussels sprouts.
They were in chess club? I was in chess club.
My life was a mirror to theirs, and at first, I loved it.
Slowly, I learned to despise it because I was never good enough compared to them. I was a hamster on a never-ending wheel. Running and running, believing that if I do this or that, I would finally be seen. Loved.
I’m not oblivious to realizing it’s why I am the way I am now—calculated, orderly, thriving on control—and how this has fed into other aspects of my life.
I’m scared shitless to let Liam down. Grinding every day to checkboxes for Hayes Hotels, fearful that if we don’t hit the next milestone or open another hotel, it’ll be my fault—it’s happened once years ago. I tried to quit, but he wouldn’t let me.
On the bed, my gaze drops to my phone. MOM is across the screen in white bold letters.
Why is she up this late?
I understand George, but my mom? Strange.
Quickly, I hop off the bed, finding my balance. Liam tosses my phone, and I answer on the second ring right before it goes to the third. She would be irritated if it went to a third .
“Mom.”
“Callum, honey. How are you?” she asks me, even though I know she doesn’t actually care. It’s the nuances and formalities.
I answer truthfully, but.
“Grand. Our Hayes Hotel Chicago location opens—”
There is a scoff. “That’s why I’m calling. I spoke with your brother; he and Harrison were over for dinner. They informed us of the opening date.” Her tone alludes to her not knowing beforehand, but I told her. Sent an official invite. “Your father and I won’t be able to attend the opening. It is during Harrison’s birthday weekend.” I can hear the distaste and disappointment in her voice. “Found it awfully rude of you to plan an opening on your brother’s birthday.”
“His birthday is the Monday before.”
“Birthdays last more than a day, you know,” she glees sarcastically.
And no, I wouldn’t know. Growing up as the youngest son, but technically being a middle child, was quite rueful. My birthday, my matches, and my achievements were all glossed over. My parents—correction only Mom, focused on my brothers and Audrey.
It’s not common knowledge whether they wanted more kids after Harrison was born. The suspected answer was no. But they had me. Mom always wanted a girl, and a part of me believes that is why she treats me the way she does. An accidental baby would be easier to swallow if it was the gender you wanted.
Two years later, they had Audrey.
My mom’s antics repeat in my head, easily finding their mark—not that they ever leave. This is the second time in minutes that they sat in the driver's seat of my brain.
“Why can’t you be more like them?”
“Is it that hard to strive to be like your brothers?”
“Do better. Your brothers were able to accomplish . . . ” The statement could be filled with a variety of answers that ranged depending on where I landed on the likable scale that day .
Whenever she’d say some form of the same remarks, they dug deeper into my skin, an imprint I’ve never been able to rid myself of.
“It was not intentional. The date was decided upon by the entire team, one of which is Liam, the owner ,” I remind her, keeping my tone in check despite the frustration rising within me. Usually, because I’m conditioned to this, there is no emotion, but this is ridiculous. Exhausting. “I promise.”
A week early birthday? She’s reaching—and I thought I was finally out of reach of her criticism. Older. Across the world.
“And mentioning your family to Liam wasn’t important? Ridiculous.”
There is no winning with her, I swear.
I run a hand through my hair. It’s longer than I’ve kept it for the past few years. The strands are curling on the ends.
Stifling a groan, it comes out as a choked exhale.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Callum Jasper ?” Mom follows up with, not even giving me a minute to process and respond. She uses my full name but cringes on my middle name.
“The date is set, and it is too late to change,” I respond firmly in an exhale. To appease her, I add, “However, next time, I promise to ensure that it will not interfere with any important family matters.”
It’s not like this should be an essential family matter to them. Hayes Hotel opening a North American location? Who am I kidding? None of them care— Audrey does , I remind myself. Dad too.
“And you’ll apologize to your brother?”
“Sure,” I reply, the frustration and annoyance finally slipping out. I run my hand through my hair again.
“Callum, I expect you to.”
“Okay.” I try to say it positively.
“Thank you,” my mother grumbles.
“Is this everything you called about?”
“No, it is not.” She huffs. “Are you seeing anyone? ”
“No?”
“Your brothers were married by twenty-five, and Audrey is dating someone from her graduate program. It is rather concerning that you have decided to partake in none of the above. I don’t quite understand wanting to bed women without ever wanting to be in a relationship.”
“Bedding women?”
“I was still speaking. Do not interrupt me,” she snarks out, and I know that her hazels are pinched, lips pursed. “You are almost thirty-one, Callum. Do you want to be a disappointment at forty and unmarried? I’ve concluded that you are incapable of finding a pleasant young woman and require my assistance. Which shouldn’t be quite challenging; look at your brothers”—My brothers who are both unhappily married? Sure, I’ll take them as examples. They’ve always been stellar examples of who I don’t want to be even though I’ve been told to be exactly like them—“and their wives. Do you not want what they have?”
I don’t answer her, not risking speaking over her again. Most of the time, Mom’s questions are rhetorical.
“Do you not want what they have?” she asks again.
So she did want an answer to that.
Do I want what they have? No.
Do I want to have someone to love, settle down, and get married? Maybe, sure. If it’s the right person.
A quick fling or one-night stand is easier than a relationship. There’s less room for criticism when they only get to know two things about you: your body and how you use it in bed.
Both of which I’ve perfected to have neither be a disappointment—at least, I’ve never had a woman complain of being unsatisfied.
I answer backhandedly. “Yes, Mum, I’d like to be married someday.”
“Then you’ll be grateful that I am doing this. I’ve already spoken with some family friends with daughters who are single. There are three or four that I’m setting you up on dates with. You’ll be able to select one of them to date. I won’t force you to get married immediately, but know that is the expectation here.”
“In London?”
“No, Callum. In Chicago. I will send you calendar invites for the dates. I expect you to attend all of them, be a gentleman, pay, and report back about the dates. I would hate to have to choose for you, but I will if you don’t comply.”
“Uh—” I’m completely lost for words. She can’t be serious.
“I will send them over tomorrow. It’s late, and I already stayed up because of you.”
The call ends without a goodbye or room for pushback.
Staring at the phone, it’s hard to maintain my disbelief and frustration with her because deep down, there is still a young boy who wants love and to make his mom proud.
“Love you too, Mom,” I say to no one but myself.