12. CALLUM
12
CALLUM
My head is heavy. My brain is foggy, but I don’t miss the way her chest rises or how her nipple peeks under my touch. I pack away the piece of information for a rainy day.
As I attempt to wade through the events of last night, a horrible thought passes through me.
“Did I try to have sex with you last night?” I ask her, needing confirmation.
Everything after dancing with her last night is fuzzy. Parts are there in full color, others grayscale if not completely blacked out.
My last memory is watching Chloe’s jaw tighten as I talked to a fit blonde at the bar. I was turning her pass down, but from where Chloe was swirling her soda water with tense shoulders, I know she was envious. At the bar, a guy settled up next to the blondie, switching out her cups, then walking away. She was oblivious, attention hyper fixated on my mouth and grazing my collar with her fingertips. I hated it, but I hated the idea that someone was trying to mess with her drink. I switched our cups, pushing the tainted one away. Then I forgot and took a sip.
Small enough to know my mistake, but enough to have residual effects.
“No,” she assures me.
“Okay, good.”
“Trust me, if we did, you wouldn’t forget it.”
“Memorable?”
“The best you’d ever have.”
I don’t doubt that.
I’m already straining against my zipper, thoughts of Chloe under or over me aren’t helping.
“I need to walk Tucker. Are you okay? If you aren’t, I can wait.”
“I’m okay. A little nauseous.”
“I’ll grab you some more water. Do you want any ibuprofen? You probably threw up the ones you took last night.”
Chloe climbs off the bed and pulls on a pair of black sweatpants.
Before she exits her room, I call out to her. “Henry.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for taking care of me last night. Dealing with whatever I was saying or doing. Cleaning up after me. Letting me stay.”
“It’s no biggie.” She shrugs off my gratitude, the faucet running telling me she’s in the kitchen.
It might not be a big deal to her, but to me it is. I’ve never been cared for like this.
Chloe returns with a glass of water, three pills, and toast.
“I didn’t know if this would help. Thought getting something in your stomach would be good, but I don’t really cook.” She’s rambling. This side of her—the sensitive, protective one—I like. I’ve watched how she’s protective over Emerson—anyone in her tight circle, really. And somehow I managed to worm my way in and I don’t ever want to leave. “If the bread is bad, I can try to find something else in the kitchen, but there isn’t much.”
I take a bite. It’s shit. The bread is terrible, absolute garbage. Dry. Crumbly. Sad.
Swallowing it down, I think sandpaper would feel better. I try to smile.
“It’s bad?” Chloe groans. “Truthfully, I don’t like it either, but I spent way too much money on it to let it go to waste.”
“How much was it? I will give you the money to throw this away.”
She snorts, dragging a hand over her face. “You are not doing that, Sullivan.”
“You aren’t eating this. ”
“Some of us don’t have a choice. I don’t have the luxury of enjoying whatever carb I want.” Chloe grabs a pair of socks and trainers. “Tucker, you ready? Let’s go outside.”
“I’ll come with you.” I pull back the corner of her covers.
“No.” Chloe glances over her shoulder at me. “You should head home and rest.”
“But I—”
“I think it would be best.” She swallows, eyes roaming my bare chest. Her apartment is chilly, but the heat coming from her is enough to melt my skin off. “Take the stairs, elevator sucks.” Chloe exits, leaving her bedroom door open.
I lay there. Disappointed.
The clicking of Tucker’s harness and rustling of plastic bags echo. Followed by the sound of her front door closing.
On the opposite night stand, her phone rings. I scoot over, stretching to pull it off the charger to make sure it’s not important, and silence the notifications.
Chloe was right, I shouldn’t go on a walk. My fuzzy head can barely handle the high-pitched stereotypical phone noises.
Her screen lights up with another text.
EMERSON: OMG
EMERSON: Call me ASAP. Are you awake?!
EMERSON: I know Tuck has you up. I’ve dog sat before and know how pangry he gets.
Pangry?
My phone buzzes in my other hand.
LIAM: Wherever you ended up last night, can you find yourself there for the day?
Take it things are going well with Emerson?
My phone shows a new group message.
EMERSON: Chloe likes banana chocolate chip pancakes with no butter and extra syrup
LIAM: Sorry, she stole my phone
I’m not at Chloe’s
EMERSON: You’re a bad liar
Takes one to know one
Does she have mix?
EMERSON: Knew it *kissing face emoji*
EMERSON: Lower cabinet next to the wall
Got it
EMERSON: Depending on how much you enjoyed last night. . . add some bananas on top
Wasn’t like that
I exit the chat.
Plugging her phone back in, I return it to the spot I took it from.
Chloe isn’t back yet with Tucker and I take the opportunity to snoop around her place. Where I would expect minimalism, black or neutrals everywhere, the place is feminine, as if a garden threw up in here, not me.
A floral bedspread. Pastel silk pillowcases.
Hand painted artwork on the walls. The discarded black clothing on the floor is a stark contrast to the rest of the space.
Her living room isn’t any different.
Wandering around her place—looking at the photos on the bookless bookshelf, touching the delicate knitted blanket tossed over the edge of her couch—feels intimate. That I’m getting a glimpse of who Chloe is at her core. The rough edges, the tattoos, the sharp exterior is soft on the inside.
I force myself to stop self-touring, needing to make the pancakes before she returns.
Walking into the kitchen, the only semi-organized room, there’s nothing out except one thing. She wasn’t lying when she said she doesn’t cook.
On the counter, a vase of daisies.
The wild kind.
They’re fresh, recently purchased for her.
I take a whiff, loving the smell of daisies. They remind me of the countryside where my grandparent’s farm is.
They remind me of her.
Making pancakes is simple. Every summer growing up, when we’d go to visit my grandparents, my grandmother and I would make them every morning from scratch.
While using the instant kind feels like cheating, I don’t have a recipe memorized nor do I think I’ll find the ingredients here .
The kitchen is tiny, as is the rest of her place. While rummaging for plates, I accidentally elbow the bowl of batter, spilling the remaining bits on the floor.
I’m on all fours, cleaning up the batter when the door opens.
“Tucker,” Chloe says quickly and with anguish. “Stop, you are going to pull my arm out.”
The leash clutters to the floor and I hear his paws before I can see him. All seventy-five pounds of him come barreling into me. His tongue taking over for the rag in my hand, licking up the remaining bits. Thankfully, there are no chocolate chips on the ground.
“Would you look at that? A man on his knees, exactly as he should be.”
I stand up and turn to face an annoyed but amused Chloe.
“I thought I told you to go home and rest.”
“About that. . .”
“What? Your listening ears turned off?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, blocking the tiny black letters across her white tee.
She’s hot when she’s annoyed.
“Liam and Emerson wanted the place to themselves.”
“Themselves,” she questions. “I guess that’s fine,” Chloe blows out her annoyance.
“I was going to leave, but then—”
She sniffs the air. Gray irises growing three sizes. She stands on her toes to peek over my shoulder.
“Did you make pancakes?”
“Banana and chocolate chip.”
“Dammit, Emme.” She brushes past me, picking one up from the stack on the scalloped lilac plate. Chloe is straddling Tucker, who is still going to town on the floor. She takes a bite of the pancake and moans. “You’re lucky I’m starving.”
Suddenly, so am I and not for pancakes.
Chloe opens a drawer, pulling out two forks and knives. “Do you want coffee? I can make a pot, or I have espresso for lattes. ”
“Do you have tea?”
Chloe doesn’t respond. Spinning to face me, she hands over the utensils. I get out of her way, finding a seat on the other side of the island. On a step stool, she rummages through the cabinet over the fridge. Seconds later, she turns back around, with a plastic container in hand.
Eyes glazed over and her jaw clenched, I can tell she’s fighting off a memory. It is the same expression I’ve worn before. “This is all I have.”
The container is slid across the island to me, lid removed. Green and herbal gray. “It’s perfect.” Chloe reaches for the pouch. “I can make it.”
“Okay,” she says reservedly.
I walk around the counter, coming to stand next to where she’s gripping the edge. “Hey, you okay, Daisy?” The nickname slips out.
“I’m fine,” she responds, trying to take a step around me. My arm juts out to stop her.
“Are you sure?”
Her head dips to her fuzzy socks. Coffee brown hair falls forward around her sharp jaw and high cheekbones. Chloe takes a deep breath, the exhale too loud to be fine.
I reach out, lightly taking her chin between my fingers, lifting her head back up. “What just happened? Where did you go?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. I promise it’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t feel like nothing. You can talk to me.”
“We are talking and we can talk about something else. I’m fine.” Her hand circles my wrist, pulling it away from her chin and returning it to my side. “Let me make the tea, you made breakfast.”
“I can make it. Just because I do something for you, doesn’t mean you have to do something for me.” I nod in the direction of the pancakes that are getting cold. “Go sit. Eat.”
Chloe points to a floating shelf behind me. “Mugs are right there.”