Chapter 5 #2
Beth tilts her head, considering her words as she takes over from her friend. "He's twenty-nine. You're twenty-two. That's a gap."
"It's seven years," I say, as evenly as I can. I try not to catch Poppy's eye. She'd out me in an instant.
"It's a significant seven years at your age. A twenty-nine-year-old man and a twenty-two-year-old woman are in very different places."
I should let it go. That would be the smart thing, the sensible thing.
"Rome is seven years older than Erin. Give or take a year."
Everyone exchanges glances. Why did I say that? Why did I say anything?
"I'm just saying." Another sip of wine, another attempt at nonchalance that's fooling absolutely no one. "The age gap argument doesn't hold up if we've already accepted it in someone else."
"You're pushing kind of hard on this for someone with no young men on the radar," Gran observes.
"I'm not pushing. I'm making a point."
"You're making a very passionate point."
I give Poppy a look that says help me. She shrugs dramatically. The bitch.
"It's a logical point. Based on consistency." I keep my voice very even, but I can feel the heat climbing my neck and no amount of willing it to stop actually makes it stop.
"You’re blushing, Lily," Poppy says, watching me like I'm entertainment.
Gran is grinning into her wine and saying nothing, which is worse than anything she could have said. Beth and Vera exchange a look.
"Well." Beth clears her throat. "Rome and Erin are very happy."
"They are," I agree, and it comes out too quickly, and God, I need to stop talking.
"And Cal is a wonderful man."
"I wouldn't know. I barely know him."
Poppy makes a sound into her wine glass that she tries to turn into a cough. It's not convincing.
"I think," Gran announces, setting her wine down like she's calling a room to order, "that Lily should do whatever Lily wants. And if what Lily wants happens to be a tall firefighter with nice eyes and nicer muscles, then that's Lily's business."
"Gran…" I'm pleading now, actually pleading.
"I'm just saying. Live, sweetheart." She picks up a cinnamon roll, tears off a piece. "That's all I'm saying."
"Nobody is talking about any firefighters. I made a point about age gaps. An academic point, based on data."
"Pure data," Poppy says flatly.
"Empirical observation," I mutter, severely unhappy with my supposed best friend.
"Your face is so red, girl."
"Poppy, I swear to God..."
The sound of a truck on gravel cuts me off. Through the kitchen window, I see an older model pickup rolling up the drive, something large wrapped in moving blankets in the bed.
"That's Will," Poppy says, sliding off her stool.
She grabs her jacket from the hook by the door. I follow her outside because I need air. Because I need to see this man. Callahan's father, the one who kept flowers in the kitchen because his wife always had.
The driver's door opens, a man steps out, and I stare because he is Callahan. Or rather, Callahan is him. Not as tall or broad as his son, but the same quiet way of standing, like the ground was lucky to have him.
But where Callahan's eyes are green with that ring of gold, this man's are brown, with creases at the corners. His hair gray at the temples, darker everywhere else.
Will hugs Poppy first, the kind of hug that says she's family to him and has been for a while. Then his gaze moves past her and finds me.
"You must be Lily, Rome's sister."
"That's me."
He smiles. And God, it's Callahan's smile. It crinkles and opens and makes you feel like you'd done something right just by standing there.
"I've heard about you."
"Good things?" I'm blushing like a little girl. Fantastic.
"Only things." He winks. "I'll let you decide what that means."
His handshake is gentle, firm but careful, like he's holding something he doesn't want to break.
"The chair's in the truck. I'll grab it if you ladies tell me where it should go."
"I'll help," I offer quickly.
A small smile crosses his face so fast I blush again.
"She's solid oak. And I got it, don't you worry."
"I'm stronger than I look."
He considers me for one more second, then his expression warms. He looks so much like a dad I have to stop myself from staring.
"I believe that," he says simply.
"Will, I can get Ramsey," Poppy says, already reaching for her phone.
"Don't bother the boy. I got this." He's already walking to the tailgate, pulling the blankets back.
I follow him. Poppy sits back and lets me.
The chair is beautiful. Dark wood, sanded smooth, curved back and wide arms. Will had carved small details into the armrests. Leaves or vines. It's the work of hands that loved what they were doing.
I run my fingers over the carving where I can reach. Will watches me as I do.
"Three months," he says, opening the truck bed and removing the ropes holding it in place. "The carving alone was six weeks."
"It's incredible."
"She's for the porch. For summer evenings." He pats the arm of it like it's alive. "The curve of the back is the thing. You lean into it and it holds you. Anna always said a good chair should hold you like a person."
Anna. His wife. He says her name like a word he uses every day. He positions himself at the back with one hand on the armrest and glances at me.
"You're on that side. Just guide the legs. Nice and easy."
I do as I'm told.
"That's it," he says as we move it. "Slowly, let her come to you."
For a few seconds, everything is fine. The chair is moving, Will talks me through it, hands steady, weight manageable. Then it stops, the base stuck on something, and he rocks it side to side, but it doesn't budge.
"Let me help from this side," I say, and I yank on it to loosen whatever's blocking it.