Chapter 6 True LoveSomething Like It #2
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, ignoring the way her lips purse around her straw, and the satisfied sounds she makes as she’s eating. She has no idea how innately sensual she is. Everything she does turns me on.
I add pickles to my imaginary list of Callie’s favorite things and make a mental note to ask Ben, the owner of Catalano’s, if I can buy a jar. I’d buy out his entire stock if it made Callie smile.
She takes a bite of the sandwich. When she pulls it away, the cheese stretches and sticks to her face. Utterly transfixed, I follow her thumb as she swipes away the mess and sucks it between her perfectly plump lips.
“You missed a little…” I slide my thumb over the corner of her mouth, pulling down slightly on her bottom lip. Her breath hitches, and she watches me with hooded eyes as I suck my finger into my mouth.
Does she have any idea I’m the man she ghosted five months ago after finally confessing my feelings? No. If she did, I doubt she’d be sitting here with me right now.
I never imagined I’d find my Alley Kat in a library one town over. It feels almost like divine intervention. Callie doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve spent years searching for her in every woman I meet. I’m not about to let her get away again.
Callie wipes her hands on a napkin and sets it on top of the now-empty takeout container. “I should get back to work. Thanks for lunch.”
“Anytime.” I gather and dispose of all the trash and follow her out of the break room.
“Are you going to be around for a while?” I ask.
“I’m here until closing.”
“Perfect. I’ll be back.”
It’s a short walk down the block to Catalano’s.
The whole place smells like fresh-baked bread, and the glass display cases are full of the most beautiful loaves of sourdough, focaccia, French bread, and more.
Black-and-white portraits hang on the walls, yellowing with age, and the menu is handwritten on a large chalkboard with the daily specials perfectly illustrated in colorful designs.
“Back already?” Ben asks, wiping his hands on his apron.
“How much for a jar of pickles?”
“Look, man. I don’t want to know what you do in your private life but leave my pickles out of it.”
His sense of humor hasn't changed a bit since high school. We were close once, but that was a long time ago. I’m not the same person anymore. A pang of sadness hits me as I think of how our friendship used to be, back before we lost Ryan.
“They’re not for me. They’re for a…friend.”
He doesn’t miss the slight hesitation. Smirking, he says, “Weird way to seduce a woman, but I’m in no place to judge.”
I follow him to the end of the counter. “Still single?”
“Painfully.” He hands me a jar of pickle spears. “On the house.”
I slide a ten into the tip jar anyway. “Thanks, man. I'll see you around.”
I’m halfway to the door when he speaks again. “Are you coming to the memorial this year?”
The thirteenth anniversary of the accident is coming up. Ryan’s family holds a memorial every summer, and every summer, I find a reason to stay home.
I slowly turn back again, keeping a tight grip on my emotions. “You know I can’t.”
“Thirteen years, Jax. Don’t you think it’s time?”
Guilt spills out as anger, despite my attempt to rein it in. “It’s my fault he’s dead in the first place. Why the fuck would they want me there?”
Ben lets out a frustrated sigh. “You still believe that shit?”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s bullshit, and we all know it.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at me pointedly. “Taking that guilt on yourself isn’t going to bring him back.”
“What are you, my therapist?”
“I’m your friend. And I’m tired of watching you sabotage your entire life as some sort of fucked up atonement for something you didn’t do.”
I grind my teeth, choking back an angry retort Ben doesn’t deserve.
When I don’t respond, he continues. “Look, man. I don’t want to fight with you.
Just think about it, alright? Phil and Marie ask about you every year.
And Catherine…” He gets a far-off look in his eyes, like he’s no longer here but somewhere off in a memory.
He clears his throat. “They don’t blame you for what happened. ”
Ryan was their only son. When they lost him, their entire world crumbled.
His younger sister, Catherine, was our shadow, and she all but disappeared when he died.
The last time I saw any of them was at his funeral.
Mama sends flowers every year, but it’s not enough to assuage my guilt. Nothing will ever be enough.
“I have to go. Thanks for the pickles.”
I shove through the door, painfully aware that I’m being an asshole. The cool air seeps through my jacket as I make my way back to the library. I take a detour down a side road to extend the journey and clear my head.
I hadn’t expected my quick errand to turn into some kind of solo intervention. I can’t go back to Callie with all of these contradictory emotions festering inside of me. She doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my darkness.
A tiny bluebird perches itself on an empty branch, its vibrant feathers contrasting against the muted tones of the dormant landscape. Winter will be over soon, and color will come back into the world, but not for me.
Movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I find myself staring at Callie through the arched library windows. When she laughs, I can almost hear it through the glass.
Fuck. That smile.
If ever there were something that could bring me back to life, it would be Callie Cooper’s smile.
I blow out a harsh breath and leave the remains of my past on the sidewalk, securing the mask back in place, the one that hides all of my damage.
Tucking my hands behind my back, I approach Callie at the desk. “I have a surprise for you.”
Her brows draw together, and she eyes me warily. “For me?”
“Mhm. Since I didn't have a chance to bring you flowers for our first date, I thought I’d make up for it.”
Her face lights up as I hold out the jar of pickles. She hesitates reaching for them. “Just so we’re on the same page, this wasn’t a date.”
I snatch them back just before she can take them from me. “Then I guess I’ll keep my pickles.”
She crosses her arms over her ample chest. “You don’t even like them.”
I lied. I like pickles just fine, but not as much as I like making Callie smile. “It’s not about the pickles. It’s about the principle of them.”
She glances at the jar, then at me. Rolling her eyes, she says, “Fine. It was a date.”
“The first of many, Callie baby.”
Our fingertips brush as she takes the jar from my hand. It’s not nearly enough. I want her in my arms. I want her body pressed up against mine. I want—no—I need to feel her lips on mine.
“Do you make a habit of being a nuisance?” she asks with a crooked smile as she holds the pickles like it’s the most precious gift she’s ever received.
“As often as I can. It’s one of my most endearing qualities.”
She sets a dictionary beside my arm and flips through the pages, coming to a stop in the ‘I’ column. “You’re confusing endearing with insufferable.”
I riffle through the book and run my finger down the page until I get to the word I’m searching for, then I turn it back around. “I think this is the word you were looking for.”
“The only thing I find even remotely irresistible is the sight of you walking away, and maybe this jar of pickles.”
I lean closer, putting us almost nose to nose. “If you wanted to see my ass, all you had to do was ask.”
Or pay $19.99 a month, but I don't say that aloud. I don't think she’s made the connection yet. I’m biding my time, waiting for the right moment to bring it up.
She averts her gaze and shuffles through a stack of papers. “I have work to do.”
I bite down on my bottom lip, taking the opportunity to scan her from head to toe. “And you do it so beautifully. I’ll see you around.”
"Mhm." She hums around the pen in her mouth, effectively dismissing me without a word.
I’ve never wanted to be a piece of plastic until this very moment.
When I stop beside my truck, the bluebird is perched on my rearview mirror. Something foreign stirs in my chest.
Something like hope.