26. CALLUM
26
CALLUM
“Have you ever been to a hockey game before?” Riley asks me as we walk into the arena the day after Thanksgiving. The chill inside is less bitter than the one outside.
I glance down at him, his hand tightly clutching Chloe’s. “Never.”
“Well, my daddy is the best. You’ll see.” He pops up one shoulder to his ear.
“I bet he is,” I laugh in agreement.
“No. Like he’s the bestest.”
Chloe glances over at me, gesturing her head to go along with him. She has a jersey on. Miller’s team logo is on the sky-blue front, and his number on the back. Across her shoulders in big, bold letters: Henry.
The two of them walk ahead of me. I fall back to admire her.
Miller took Chloe’s advice and gave his nanny the weekend off. When Chloe picked up Riley, he handed her three tickets for the game tonight, assuming I would want to go with them. He assumed right, but that’s because I enjoy being around her. Quite enjoy how slowly we are peeling away layers of each other, too.
When we met, I could tell immediately that she was an onion. Sure, she could easily make boys cry, but Chloe has layers and lots of them.
Call it layers. Call it a mask, she only reveals bits of what’s underneath to specific people. The closer we become, the more I can tell she’s showing me.
“Chloe, can we get popcorn?” Riley tugs on her arm to get her attention. “No, nachos!”
“Whatever you want, little man. Do you want it now or after we find our seats?”
“Now!” Riley shouts.
“Inside voice, remember.”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says quietly.
She laughs, “You can talk normally. No yelling.”
“But I can yell when daddy scores.”
“Absolutely. I’m going to yell louder than you,” she teases.
“Nah-uh. I am.” Riley points to himself.
“No way,” she plays back. “Cal might even yell louder than the both of us.” Chloe easily brings me into the conversation.
Big eyes and a bigger smile land on me. “Even though you’ve never been to a game before?” he asks me excitedly.
“I was hoping you could teach me. Tell me when.”
“Duh. Okay, popcorn now, then seats!” Riley drops Chloe’s hand and grabs hold of the jersey I’m wearing, the one Chloe tossed in my room earlier to wear. “Come on, Cal!”
***
“Iget to sit behind the glass because my dad is on the team,” Riley tells me for the third time as we make our way down the concrete steps.
“Don’t slip,” Chloe says over my shoulder to him. “Pay attention, or you are going to drop your drink.”
At the concessions stand, Riley stood on his toes, grasping the metal counter, and ordered the popcorn he wanted. Then, I ordered nachos, two kinds of candy, a hot dog, and Diet Coke. When the cashier asked if we wanted anything else, Chloe whispered in my ear that we shouldn’t get anything. He will take two bites and then move on to something else .
He’s carrying the soda. The tray of nachos, a fully loaded hot dog, and the candy are in my hands. Behind me, Chloe is holding an XL tub of popcorn.
That she is tossing at my head. A kernel falls down the back of the jersey.
“Yes?” I ask over my shoulder at her.
“Henry looks good on you, Pretty Boy,” she says with a wink.
Oh, yeah, I’m wearing her name on my back.
***
We attended Miller’s games for the remainder of their home game stretch. Riley was adamant that he only wanted to attend the games if I was there. His toothy smile and gray puppy dog eyes are hard to say no to.
Over the five games, I’ve learned a lot about hockey. Between the two, there is enough knowledge to fill an encyclopedia. You can tell that Chloe grew up around the ice.
There were moments I’d glance at her over Riley’s head, catching her profile. She’d take a quick breath and bite her bottom lip, eyes going soft with a sense of. . . longing.
Then the puck would drop, as would her demeanor. On the edge of her seat, yelling at the refs and clutching Riley’s hand in hers anytime Miller had the puck.
Since then, we haven’t seen each other much. Our schedules have been opposite. Chloe has had evening events, and I’ve had early morning meetings with our London team.
“You hate Chicago.”
The bite to her assumption has my head jerking back, halting the bite of bacon I was about to take. We’re enjoying breakfast together. On weekdays, it’s an unofficial race between us to see who is out the door first, but we’re both home on the weekends .
Chloe doesn’t cook, so I make us breakfast. Saturdays are pancakes with bananas and chocolate chips—which I’ve come to enjoy quite a lot. Sundays are eggs and bacon.
If I’m up before her, I’ll walk Tucker and make her coffee while my tea is steeping.
Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t.
It’s nice.
Especially this weekend after not seeing her for a week.
I don’t know what she did before she lived here on the weekends—I try not to think about her life before us—but from the tidbits I have gotten from her, it wasn’t this. More chaotic, messy.
So it’s nice that she’s settled into a small routine with me.
But this morning, I guess Chloe is choosing violence.
“Hate is a strong word.”
“Then how would you describe your feelings about Chicago? Because from here, it looks a lot like you despise it.” She cuts open an egg, the yolk puddling. For a minute, I think she’s asking about herself, not the city. Then she continues, “You don’t leave the apartment except for work.”
“I go to the gym. And the grocery store,” I point out.
“That doesn’t count.” She takes a bite. “And you order groceries for delivery.” Then points the fork at me.
Something she has turned me on to.
“I don’t hate the city.”
“Does it bore you then?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I have work. I’m not here for fun.”
“I don’t think you have any fun,” she mumbles, biting off a piece of the bacon in her hand.
“I heard that. Do you think I’m boring?”
“No.” She bobbles her head. “Maybe.” She sets down her fork. “I know work is important, and that’s great. You are incredible at what you do. I. . .I just think you focus too much on it.” She hit the nail on the head with that. “You’re always mister cool, calm, and collected, but I think you are missing out on a bit of life—and this city—because of it.”
Not wrong again. I haven’t even been to The Bean.
“You want me to love Chicago?” I ask her.
Chloe bounces her shoulders. “Like, love, I don’t care. I don’t want you to want to leave .”
I don’t want to leave either.
After finishing her breakfast, Chloe dropped her rinsed plate in the sink, and bolted upstairs.
“We’re going out,” she calls from them. “Wear something warm!”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I washed our dishes, towel-dried them, and let them rest on the drying rack by the sink. Tucker’s water bowl was drained, his head lying on the rim, pathetically begging for more. I filled it before heading to my room to change.
Tugging on a pair of black jeans and an oatmeal knitted sweater, back downstairs, I find a wool coat in the closet. I opted for a pair of boots instead of sneakers after peeking out the window and seeing a light dusting of snow on the ground.
Chloe walks into the entryway with two beanies in hand. She’s wearing a similar outfit. Black jeans that are like a second skin on her with a rip in the knee, a baggy lavender sweater with a white thermal turtleneck under it. She trades her traditional Converse for a pair of black combat boots with the daintiest flowers on them.
“Here.” Chloe passes a beanie to me. “I got this for you the other day when I was reorganizing the closet and noticed you didn’t have one. I wasn’t sure how cold it gets in London, but you’ll want it for the winter here.”
I hadn’t packed many winter clothes with me. I didn’t expect to be in the States this long or be spending the winter here.
When the temperature dropped a few weeks ago, I shopped for new clothes. Jeans, sweaters, coats, but I forgot to buy a hat .
I take it from her, and our fingers brush. Chloe’s eyes flick up to mine. “Thanks, Dais.”
“You’re welcome.” The corners of her mouth tick up in the slightest smile. Chloe isn’t wearing lipstick today, but her lips are glossy. Shiny pink and very kissable.
Pulling on the beanie, I adjust my ears. “Fits.”
“Almost bought an XXL, didn’t know what size would fit your big head,” she jokes, sliding her hat on.
Dark strands of hair get folded up in the black pom-pom hat.
Chloe’s hair has grown out since the summer. She hasn’t gone to get it cut. I know she’s trying to grow it out. All the girls my mom set me up with, including the one Chloe saw me with, had long hair. I wonder if that’s why she’s been growing it out.
Not that she would or need to do anything for me.
But is she?
I swallow down the thought, coating my dry throat before speaking. “You look pretty today.”
Reaching out, I fix her hair, placing it over her clavicles.
“Watch it. Don’t need you to start calling me pretty girl.”
“I can if that’s what you want.” My hands linger on the ends of her hair.
“Daisy is good.” She nods.
I drop my hands, going for Tucker’s leash. “Are we bringing him?”
“Nope. I’m your only date for the day.” She gives me a sassy wink. “Your official Chicago tour guide.”
***
Ioffered to drive, but Chloe said that was unnecessary.
We walked to Millenium Park, snapping pictures in front of and under The Bean. I wonder how many people know that its proper name is Cloud Gate? I didn’t .
We checked off a few other touristy items as we made our way to Navy Pier. Chloe was right, I don’t get out much nearly enough. My routine, which I crafted and thrive on, is confined to my flat, the office, gym and the hotel. Most of my time is occupied by work, but not entirely of late.
Now there’s a cheeky dark-haired girl making herself my world. I haven’t spent an evening working in a month. Not since she moved in.
“I know this is also touristy, but when you live in a city as great as Chicago, you can’t help but appreciate those parts,” she tells me as we are in line for hot chocolate. “I love the Navy Pier. Tucker and I walk down here during the summer and can spend hours sitting along the water. It’s my favorite during the winter, though.”
I exchange a twenty for the hot chocolates, handing one to Chloe.
“This is definitely one of the reasons.” She lets out a soft moan as she takes her first sip. Eyes closed and head thrown back. My eyes refuse to close and not see her like this.
Most of the activities at the pier are for kids or families, but we still walk around.
We pass an ice skating rink. Fake ice surrounded my boards and a small stand at the front where you can purchase tickets and rent skates. Her head turns, watching a group of middle school girls skate by.
“Do you want to skate?”
Her attention remains on the ice. Gaze following the clockwise path of skaters.
“Henry?”
“You can if you want.” Chloe pulls away, pointing over her shoulder to the stands. “I’ll watch.”
“I don’t know how to skate either. We could try together.”
“My brother plays professional hockey; I know how to ice skate,” she bites back, a defensiveness to her tone that’s fierce and matches her body language .
“Then why aren’t we skating?”
“There’s a long line and kids. . .” She rattles off a few more excuses, all of them skating around the real reason. If she doesn’t want to, that’s all she needs to say. Chloe’s shoulder slump forward as if she’s retreating into herself. “Can we keep walking?”
Falling in step, Chloe tells me more about the pier and the history behind it. You can tell she loves this city with all the history she knows about it. I’m quiet, enthralled with listening to her talk. It could be about how paint is made, and I’d listen to her. I’d listen to anything she says.
Chloe’s raspy voice has become one of comfort. I look forward to coming home each day and hearing it. Or when she’s had to travel for work, she calls me to check in on Tucker—I tell myself it’s because she wants to talk to me, but I know her priorities.
We’re making our way back toward the entrance when we pass a photo booth.
Chloe stops dead in her tracks. I accidentally take a few steps before realizing she isn’t beside me.
“I didn’t know they still made these,” she gasps. “I’ve always wanted to do a classic photo booth.”
I back up, spinning to face her. Her eyes twinkle with excitement.
“Here. Give me your cup, and you can go do it.”
“I can’t do it alone. That’s weird.”
“It’s not. Go.” I pluck the cup from her hands, nudging her to go to the booth.
She sighs, giving up quickly, to my surprise.
Chloe ducks to enter the booth, closing the curtain behind her. I can’t see her, but I can hear the beeping of the camera, counting down each of the four photos.
As soon as the final photo is taken, the film sheet of pictures prints in black and white.
Only one copy prints. I snatch it quickly, admiring Chloe .
She’s smiling in the first one, with a shoulder tucked up to her cheek.
The second, she’s snarling at the camera, biting her lip.
The third is Chloe fixing her hair, hands running through the roots, fluffing it. Her eyes are mid-eye roll.
In the final photo, she has her hat beanie back on and pulled over her eyes. Her lips are pushed out, and she’s leaning closer to the camera as if giving it a kiss.
What I would give to be that camera.
I pocket the photos.
Chloe pulls back the curtain, searching for where the photos print. “Has anything printed?”
I shake my head no.
“Oh. Maybe that’s why no one is in line. It doesn’t work.”
Chloe’s face falls in slight disappointment. I do feel bad that I lied to her…
“Try it again,” I suggest.
“You have to do it this time.” I shake my head again. “Come on, Pretty Boy.” Gray eyes flutter beneath her dark lashes. “Please.”
As if I thought I could ever say no to her.
Whoa.
Who is this Callum Sullivan? And where did the old one go?
“There’s no line. We have to,” she tacks on, sticking her bottom lip out. She reapplied her lip gloss after finishing her drink, and now it’s teasing me. Her mouth is begging to be kissed, and I might beg her to let me.
“Okay.”
She doesn’t say thank you, but she does smile at me. Big, cheek to cheek, the tip of her tongue peeking through her front teeth. Fuck, she’s perfect.
I set our cups on the ground. Chloe takes my hand, pulling me behind her and inside the booth.
“Your butt is too big.” She pokes at my side. “I can’t sit down. ”
There isn’t enough room on the wooden bench for us to sit beside each other.
“You looking at my butt, Dais?”
“Once or twice,” she admits casually. “What do you expect me to do when you wear those suits?”
“You like my suits?”
“Suits. Sweatpants. This sweater. You could wear a burlap sack, and I’d like it on you.”
Circling her waist, I pull her on top of me—my mouth level with her ear. “What about without any of that on?”
Chloe takes in all the air in this tight space. “I’d probably like that best.”
Is it hot in here?
The camera starts beeping to alert us that the countdown is beginning.
Three, two, one, we pose for the first photo: heads next to each other with smiles.
“Silly face, Pretty Boy.”
The countdown starts again for the next photo. Chloe makes a fish face. I stick my tongue out.
“What now?” I ask. “Hurry, two seconds.”
“ Kissmycheek ,” she says in one breath as 1 flashes on the screen.
I turn quickly, almost missing the photo, kissing her cheek as she tilts one brow up.
Pulling my lips back against her skin, my mouth is on her ear. In a hot breath, I whisper, “I’m going to kiss you now, Dais”
“Callum—” she says in tune with the countdown.
Three. . .
My left hand snakes across her body, cupping her chin between my fingers. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
Two. . .
I turn her head to face me. Her eyes are wide with anticipation. Chloe licks her lips. “Need you to. ”
One. . .
I seal my lips to hers.
The smell of peaches invades my sense of smell. My sense of taste is overwhelmed with her.
The camera goes off, but neither of us pull back. Lips pressed against each other like kids learning to kiss for the first time. Then Chloe moves her mouth, kissing me back.
Her lips open, taking my bottom between hers.
I tip her head back, pushing my hand into her hair under her hat, giving me better access to her mouth, taking the kiss deeper. When my tongue tangles with hers, she whimpers and I wonder how long we can stay here.
Not long enough.
She pulls away when she hears the sound of the printer. “It worked this time,” she says between pants. Standing quickly, she fumbles forward out of the photo booth.
When I exit a minute later, needing to adjust and give myself a minute, I spot her back to me, clutching the strip in her hands. Eyes locked on the last photo.
“How’d they turn out?” I ask her, standing behind her and resting my chin on her shoulder.
She turns her head, our mouths almost touching. “Perfect.”
Yeah, I could learn to love Chicago.