Chapter Thirty
Lydia
I stared at my phone like it might do a magic trick.
Nothing.
No text. No call. Not even a sarcastic little still alive check-in that Callum could’ve easily sent if he had half a mind to.
I’d messaged him that morning. Just a simple Hey, hope today’s not kicking your ass. Casual, light. I’d reread it three times before hitting send, terrified it sounded too needy, too hopeful.
He hadn’t replied.
That was six hours ago.
I told myself he was busy. Maybe the bar was slammed. Maybe he dropped his phone in the sink or got sucked into one of those black holes behind the bar where receipts and coasters went to die.
But deep down?
I felt it.
That familiar slow-drip dread of being too much for someone who couldn’t handle feelings.
Of overstepping. Of being the one who made the first move, only to be met with silence.
I hated how that old wound reopened so easily.
Sighing, I tossed my phone onto the couch and forced myself back into the apartment makeover. Distraction was my only salvation right now.
The place looked… cute. Cozy, even.
Gone were the tired mustard curtains that had clung to the window like soggy spaghetti. I’d replaced them with linen panels in a soft oatmeal color that let the light pour in like honey. Now painted sage green, my thrifted bookshelf sat under the big window overlooking Main Street. I’d lined the shelves with a mix of my mom’s favorite novels and the ones I swore I’d read someday.
A little round table sat in the corner now. It was vintage, a little wobbly, but perfect. I'd sanded the legs, painted them matte navy, and added two mismatched chairs I’d recovered in floral fabric—the kind that looked like your grandma’s kitchen chairs but better.
The kitchenette was still tragic, but I’d added a pegboard for hanging mugs and painted the drawers a cheery robin’s egg blue. It didn’t fix the wonky stove or the humming fridge, but it made the space feel more like mine.
And the bed…well, I’d upgraded. Nothing fancy. Just fresh sheets, a cloud-soft comforter, and a pile of pillows that made it feel like I was crashing at a boutique hotel instead of an ancient studio above a bakery.
It was mine. Every tiny fix. Every paint stain on my forearm. I would scour secondhand stores every afternoon to find pieces that felt like home.
It was finally starting to feel like I belonged here.
Until I saw Melanie’s car parked out front.
My heart did this weird lurch in my chest—excited, confused, and suddenly panicked. She hadn’t said anything about coming by. But there it was, her car, parked crooked in the space right beneath my window.
I leaned over the sill and scanned the sidewalk.
No sign of her.
Maybe she’d gone into the bookstore?
I slipped on my sandals and padded downstairs, expecting to find her inside, browsing romance novels with a latte in hand. But the bookstore was dark. Locked up. Closed until tomorrow.
I grabbed my keys, left my apartment, and walked the length of the block.
No Melanie.
That’s when it hit me.
A sudden, unshakable gut feeling that had my stomach tightening.
She wasn’t in the bookstore.
She wasn’t in my apartment.
Which meant…
“Oh no,” I breathed, turning on my heel.
She’d gone to the Rusty Stag.
Panic hit me like a rogue wave. The kind that sneaks up and pulls your feet out from under you before you even realize the tide changed.
I speed-walked up the block, heart thumping, every worst-case scenario flashing through my brain like a doom slideshow.
What if she was confronting him?
What if she told him I’d been spiraling, that I missed him, that I was starting to fall for a man who’d already shut the door?
What if she said too much?
I should’ve known better than to keep secrets from Melanie. She was smart, intuitive, and fiercely loyal. But I hadn’t expected her to go to him.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t mad at her.
I was terrified she’d find out more than I was ready to admit to myself.
That whatever had happened between Callum and me wasn’t just a reckless kiss. Or a weak moment. Or a night tangled in something too deep for us to name.
It meant something.
And if he was pretending it didn’t… I didn’t know what I’d do.
I spotted the door cracked open to the Rusty Stage, and a figure paced behind the bar.
It wasn’t Melanie.
It was him.
Callum.
My breath caught.
I hovered near the entrance.
Callum looked…
Wrecked.
Hair rumpled, shirt wrinkled, rubbing the back of his neck like the weight of the world was pressing down on his spine.
He said something to someone I couldn’t see.
I took two careful steps to the right and spotted her.
Melanie.
Leaning one hip against the bar, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in a way I knew all too well.
My stomach dropped.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from the looks of it, it wasn’t polite.
Melanie was giving him the look usually reserved for ex-boyfriends, crooked landlords, and anyone who had the gall to hurt someone she loved.
I stepped back quickly, pulse hammering in my ears.
If Callum hadn’t already ghosted me, this might be the nail in the coffin.
I wasn’t sure I could take hearing what she had to say about me.
Or what he didn’t.
I backed down the sidewalk, trying to quiet my thoughts.
Because if this didn’t go the way I feared it would…
Then maybe it was time to accept the truth.
I’d fallen for a man still haunted by his past.
And I didn’t know if he’d ever let me be part of his future.
I must’ve circled Main Street twice before I spotted her.
Melanie.
Finally, she leaned against a lamppost across from the Rusty Stag, laughing at something Drew said, her hair bouncing with every shake of her head like she didn’t have a single care in the world.
Meanwhile, I was two seconds from yanking the petals off a flower cart in a full-blown anxiety spiral.
My flip-flops slapped angrily against the pavement as I stormed across the street, heart pounding, heat rising in my cheeks, and not just from the sun.
She saw me halfway through her sentence. Her brows lifted innocently, like Oh, fancy seeing you here, and I might’ve tackled her if Drew hadn’t been standing two feet away, looking equally amused and confused.
“Well, there she is,” Melanie said with a little grin, as if I hadn’t just searched half the town, convinced she was breaking the unspoken code of “Don’t intervene with the man I’ve maybe-sort-of slept with and am now being emotionally wrecked by.”
I stopped in front of them and folded my arms. “Want to tell me why your car’s parked in front of my building and you’ve been MIA for the last thirty minutes?”
Drew raised both hands in surrender. “I’m just here for the vibes.”
Melanie looked entirely too pleased with herself. “I needed a walk. You know, fresh air, time to think.”
My brows lifted. “All the way up here in Reckless River? Seattle couldn’t provide that?”
“Not like this. I needed a walk.”
“You hate walking.”
She shrugged. “I’ve evolved.”
I shot her a look. She knew I wasn’t buying it. Not even a little.
My eyes flicked to Drew, who was very obviously trying not to smirk. “Did you two plan a casual stakeout or…?”
Melanie held up a hand. “Before you go full FBI, I did not go marching into the bar to demand explanations or threaten bodily harm. Though the thought may have crossed my mind.”
Drew coughed into his hand. “Only about seventeen times.”
Melanie elbowed him. “You’re not helping.”
I took a breath. Tried to reel it back in. My skin still buzzed from seeing Callum, and I wondered what he was saying. If he looked guilty. If he cared .
“I was worried about you,” Melanie said, softening. “You’ve been quiet and didn’t answer my texts.”
“I’ve been figuring things out.”
“I know, which is exactly why I wanted to check in. But I didn’t go in there guns blazing. I just… talked to him.”
“You talked to him?” I repeated the words, tasting like smoke.
Melanie looked me dead in the eye. “Lyd, I know you don’t want people interfering. I know you hate looking like you’re not in control. But I’m your friend. And you don’t have to do all this alone.”
Her voice had dropped, sincere now. Not bossy. Not smug. Just Melanie being Melanie. Fierce, loyal, and maddeningly right most of the time.
Still, the heat in my chest didn’t go away.
“Did he say anything?” I asked, quieter than I meant to.
She nodded slowly. “He said he panicked. That he’s not good at this. That he cares.”
My chest squeezed. Tight, painful. Like every word pressed against something I hadn’t let myself admit yet.
That I cared, too.
More than I should.
More than I wanted to.
“He’s got a lot of walls,” I murmured.
Drew snorted. “He’s practically made of drywall and emotional insulation.”
I blinked, startled into a laugh despite myself.
“He’s trying, though,” Drew added, more seriously now. “And just for the record, he’s a mess about you.”
I glanced between the two of them. Melanie, with her arms crossed, clearly waiting for my next move, and Drew watching me like he knew what it was before I did, made me feel marginally calmer.
The tension between my ribs tightened again, but this time it wasn’t all anger.
It was fear.
And something that felt a lot like hope.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted.
Melanie’s hand found mine. “You don’t have to. Just don’t run from it.”
I looked toward the Rusty Stag, heart thudding like a drum in my ears. I could still picture him behind the bar, jaw tight, hands always moving like he was scared of sitting still too long. He was rough edges and shadows and silence, but when he looked at me, he saw me.
I wasn’t sure what that meant yet.
But I knew it mattered.
I wasn’t ready to forget what we shared.
And I wasn’t ready to walk away.
Not yet.