Chapter 17
CAL
The tennis ball hits the wall, comes back, and I catch it without looking. It's two in the morning.
Throw, catch.
I've been staring at the same stain on my ceiling for forty minutes now, which is forty minutes longer than I intended when I lay down and told myself I was going to sleep. Sleep did not cooperate. Sleep took one look at the state of things and quietly let itself out.
Throw, catch.
The problem is I keep thinking about the her laugh. Her whole face changes and there's this half-second where she looks almost surprised at herself, and then she's laughing, really laughing, and I want to spend the rest of my life figuring out how to make that happen again.
She's funny. That's the other problem.
I expected, when she moved here, to find her charming in that surface way.
The way of someone who knows they're charming and has learned to lean on it.
What I didn't expect was genuine. Effortless.
The kind of funny that doesn't need a setup.
And when I do laugh, she looks at me like she's won something. Which makes me want to do it again.
Throw, catch.
I think about her face in the car the other night, the way she turned toward me in the passenger seat, completely comfortable taking up space, asking about my tastes with the same energy she might use to ask about the weather.
And somehow I have the nerve to think it's just so her, like I know her enough.
The way she worked through the worst possible options in descending order, starting with cannibalism, for fuck's sake, because apparently that's where her brain goes. And my brain, unhelpfully, tells me everything about her is just perfect.
Which. No. That's not a thought I'm allowed to have.
"I know I'm too much," she told my dad once, after he laughed at something she said. She actually believes that and I can't think of a single person in my life who has made me feel more at ease by being completely out of control.
I caught the jealousy, though, when Cherry's name came up. I saw it move across her face in the half second before she got it back under control, that quick hot flash in her eyes before the composure came back down.
I liked it more than I had any right to. Loved it, actually. And that's a problem. I'm keeping a running tab of problems at this point.
Throw, catch.
The kisses. We agreed, without saying anything, that it wouldn't happen again. I've been thinking about doing it again approximately every fourteen seconds since.
The worst part is I just want to be around her.
That's what I keep coming back to, underneath all the rest of it.
The real problem began when I started thinking it's not just sexual, though it's also that.
A lot of that. But underneath it all, she's just a person who makes time pass differently.
I can sit in a room where she's talking and every other conversation goes slightly out of focus.
I could just listen to her, that's it, that would be enough.
That's insanity. I throw the ball harder.
I think about the tastes conversation again, and I regret saying it the second it was out of my mouth. She treated that information like a starting gun and went at it with a level of determination that should have been alarming and was instead, somehow, the funniest conversation I've had in months.
My tastes aren't that complicated, if I'm being honest with myself. I'm not rough. I'm not cruel. I've spent my adult life being careful with people. I just like a certain kind of dynamic.
The word for it is degradation, but I'm in no way serious enough about it that it needs a label.
I just like calling a woman filthy things while I'm inside her. I don’t believe them, and I don’t want her to. It's about the moment when she says the worst thing she thinks about herself, the neediest, most desperate version, the one she's afraid makes her too much or wrong. And I don't leave.
I have my reasons for keeping that particular preference out of Harbor Hill, reasons that have nothing to do with shame.
I don't need that dynamic for good sex. But I wouldn't show this town even the blandest version of myself, let alone that. It’s harmless and yet this town will never let it go.
But then there's Lily. I stop that thought cold, because the direction it's heading is unacceptable. I've always stuck with women who are older, women who can keep the power balanced from the start. No tipping the scales, no exploiting vulnerability.
And Lily is twenty-two. Which means she is entirely, absolutely, off-limits.
I won't imagine her like that, surrendering and needing and mine. I won't picture her on her knees, voice breaking, calling herself my...
No. My body doesn't get the memo. My cock twitches anyway, and I hate that. I hate how fast the image comes, her eyes on mine, lips parted.
No. The seven years between us feels like a chasm, one I won't cross, no matter how hard it pulls. She's a menace and trouble and she makes me laugh at two in the morning, and I have a hard time thinking about her that way.
I drop the ball on the nightstand, sit up, scrub both hands over my face. I pick up my phone. Lock the screen. Unlock it.
I should take a cold shower, not sit here thinking about texting the girl I told myself I'd stay away from nine seconds ago.
And yet. Here's the thing: I’ve been searching Harbor Hill news archives for hours, looking for something, anything that would keep her from walking the streets alone in the dark.
That's the excuse I'm going with. Public safety. I found a flasher article. Some guy who wandered Main Street for two weeks back in 2018 until one day he just vanished. It's more local history than actual threat, but it'll do.
I type out the message before I can talk myself out of it.
Me
Sending this as a public service. [link] This is what roams the streets of Harbor Hill after dark. No more solo walks.
I hit send.
Three dots appear almost immediately, which means she's also awake at two in the morning. I'm not going to think too hard about that.
A photo comes through: Obama, specifically Barack Obama mid-grin, draping a medal around his own neck. Captioned: when you are so correct that you award yourself.
I laugh hard and loud into my empty bedroom. My dad sleeps at the other end of the house or I'd be in trouble.
Me
The man does need a medal He has the face of a God and a Nobel Prize.
Trouble
wow look at you singing his praises
Me
I am always ready to praise the greatest president of the modern era.
Trouble
Just a president? Or the man who made you come out to your parents at eleven years old
I shake my head at my phone, still smiling.
Me
He inspired me and I developed a crush. I don't see the problem.
Trouble
I still can't believe you cried when he won, Callahan. And at that age?
Me
I was moved by the democratic process.
Trouble
and the posters?
Me
Posters on walls were all the rage back then.
Trouble
The poster was on your wall until you were HOW old?
I catch myself smiling like a complete idiot at my phone.
Me
The poster represented an era of political hope. I'm not apologizing for it.
Trouble
Riiight. nothing to do with his gorgeous face.
Me
The man is objectively handsome and perfect. This is not controversial.
Trouble
He really is Must be the ears
Me
You know what they say about men with big ears.
I press my mouth together and wince. I am a composed man, so I am not going to examine the fact that I just made an innuendo about a former president's ears to a girl at two in the morning, over text.
I'm going to move on immediately, no matter how fun this is.
Me
Forget I said that and let's get some sleep.
Trouble
Too late, I already did the math. the math is very promising
I chuckle, because did I really expect anything else from her?
Me
Goodnight, Lily.
Trouble
Goodnight Callahan. Thanks for the flasher article very informative. i'll keep my eyes open on my walk
I sit up.
Me
Your walk? As in a now walk?
Trouble
Yeah, couldn't sleep. A walk will fix that
She cannot possibly be serious. I know Harbor Hill is a cozy, beautiful place at night, but this is not smart.
Me
It's 2 in the morning!
Trouble
The streets are empty and ALL the lights on
Me
I swear to God I feel my hair graying
Trouble
Sounds hot. And like a you problem
A photo comes through. The little brat sent a photo of her foot, shoe being pulled on, laces still loose, shot from above in the low amber light of what's probably her apartment hallway.
I'm out of bed before she's probably got her second shoe on. Keys from the hook, car started in under a minute, which is probably a record even by the standards of a man who drives to emergencies for a living.
I don't examine it. There's nothing useful to examine at two in the fucking morning in my sleep shirt and pajama pants.
I find her on Main Street, sure enough heading for the harbor. Hands in her hoodie pockets, hair loose and dark down her back, completely unbothered.
I pull up alongside her and roll down the window.
She stops, takes a second, then turns toward me with a smoothness that tells me she knew I'd follow before I did. Her arms cross and she levels me with a look that says I'm annoying her beyond comprehension.
"Get in."
"I've heard that before," she smirks.
"It worked before."
I duck my head to hold her gaze. "Get. In."
She considers her options for approximately three seconds, her attention going to the empty street like it might offer a better argument than I have.
Another eye roll, and she gets in, closes the door with more force than necessary.
The car has soft lock, for crying out loud, but she's never figured that out.
She pulls her seatbelt on, kicks off her sneakers and tucks her knees up. The noise in my head stops. Just like that. Because every space I own, she makes home. I shouldn't like that as much as I do.
She's not wearing makeup, I notice, her face clean and glowing in the light of the dash, and I need to stop staring.