42. CHLOE
42
CHLOE
My obsession with Survivor isn’t new.
It was a whole family affair growing up. Probst is practically my uncle. We’d gather around the TV on Wednesday nights and watch whatever season was on. If it were off-air, we’d watch reruns that we’d tape on VHS. I’ve recently tried to get into other shows, but I always end up back here.
“Survivor?” Cal asks me.
“It’s the greatest show on Earth.”
He laughs, and it’s deep and soft. This is his laugh that I swear is reserved for when it’s just us.
I like this version of him.
The relaxed one. The unserious and not in complete control. I wonder if he notices that his guard is down when I’m around—I know mine is.
I wish he’d show it more, but then again, I don’t. Selfish, I know, but I covet this safe space we’ve built.
Cal is a fortress with a steel wall around it instead of brick. Out front is a drawbridge; slowly, as we’ve become closer, this friendship or relationship, or whatever we are, has been turning the crank. He’s lowering the bridge to himself.
“Not doubting you.”
“You know, since I’ve been living here, I don’t think I’ve seen you voluntarily watch TV once.”
“Not my thing.”
“Is there a reason?”
He shrugs it off .
I want to know more—I want to know all of him. Have all of him. I know there is more to this, but his quiet demeanor and tense shoulders tell me I shouldn’t ask. If he wants to tell me, open up to me, he will.
That’s my philosophy.
Asking or prying Callum to talk hasn’t always been successful. I just wish he wanted to tell me. That’s what stings.
I’ve given away pieces of myself to him, more than I’ve ever given away to a guy—maybe anyone. Small ones here and there, enough to put together the perimeter of a puzzle.
“This season is on my Survivor Mount Rushmore,” I tell him to redirect the conversation. “In the last episode, the two tribes merged, and the person voted off was pissed .” Tapping play, the episode picks up where I left off last: right before tribal council. “That’s her—the one giving the tribe two middle fingers. Honestly, she wasn’t my favorite player.”
“Who is?”
“Like all-time or this season?”
“Both?”
“Hmm. That’s a tough question.” I purse my lips, then move them around. Stretching my legs out, my tight muscles feeling the strain, I use Cal’s thigh to push against. “This season, Kelly. All-time Boston Rob. Wait, no. Yes. I have two favorites.” I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “Boston Rob or Parvati.”
“Why them?”
“Promise not to judge me?”
“Have I given you the impression I would?”
“No,” I answer truthfully. Cal has never given me the impression that he’s judgemental. Any weird thing I do, wear, eat, or say feels normal around him. Everything around him feels normal. Entirely right.
“I would never judge you,” Cal reiterates, our eyes catching.
“I know.” I nod confidently. “I wouldn’t either, you know. ”
The corners of his mouth tick up quickly, but disappear. “Tell me more about your favorites.”
His tone clears away the random tension between us, bringing us right back to the playful friendship that is continuing to bloom between us.
Attentively, Cal listens to me ramble on about why they are my favorites, which is because of their cunning attributes and manipulative gameplay. And the fact that they are beasts at every challenge.
“Oh my gosh,” I cut myself off. “This is epic.”
Cal's light laughter pulls my head and attention to his, which is on me. I nudge his thigh with my feet.
“Pay attention.” I nudge my head toward the TV.
“I’m watching,” he says and turns his attention from me to the screen. “Swear.”
I dig the remote out of the couch and turn up the volume. Placing it on the coffee table, I bring the bowl of popcorn to my lap. Grabbing the perfect bite—you have to get a ratio of two pieces of popcorn for one M all I need to do is lean forward.
I don’t move, but I think he does.
But it could also be a hesitation.
“Cal.”
His eyelids close. “Dais.”
Breathes and minutes pass between us, the next episode starting up behind me.
Cal tugs at the hem of my shirt on my right hip. “What’s this tattoo?” He touches my skin, fingers trailing over my underwear.
“T-the ‘S?” I somehow say over my racing heart, beating like a galloping horse. Goosebumps flare where his skin is on mine .
“I saw it earlier.”
“Thought it was funny.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah.” One shoulder hikes up. “Some girls I knew in college decided to get ass tats. A few of them got their boyfriend’s names. I thought that was stupid. Why would you ever get a boy’s name on your body? I spitefully tattooed ‘S. It’s not as if I’ll ever be anyone's, but who knows?” I shrug, thinking I’m being cute or something. “Maybe your name will end up there.”
“You are something else, Chloe Henry.” His gaze roams over my face like he’s memorizing me. . . or just mesmerized.
“Hey, now. You said you wouldn’t ever judge me.”
“I’m not judging you. I’m adoring you.” Then quietly, his mouth barely moving he adds, “And if you’d let me, I’d worship you too.”