Chapter 27
CALVIN
We let go when her eyes went heavy and she said she had to wash the day off. I took the hint, went back to my room, and waited for the house to settle around me.
When Jules’s door clicked shut, I followed suit.
Headed downstairs, scrubbed the smoke and beer from my skin, then came back to my room to stare at the ceiling like it owed me answers.
Suddenly the quiet changes.
Through the thin wall, a drawer slides open, then shut. A glass taps softly against wood. A cough. Small. Human. Impossible to ignore.
So she’s not asleep.
I stay still.
The bedsprings shift. Then again.
A grin slips out before I can stop it.
Funny how life folds in on itself. Years of distance, and now I’m counting her coughs through drywall.
Well, here’s my shot in the dark.
“Could you keep it down in there?”
Silence.
“I’m joking. You still breathing?”
“I hate you.”
I grin into the dark. “Walk?”
Truth is, I’ll take whatever chance she gives me.
Another pause, long enough to make me second-guess myself. Then:
“Okay.”
A floorboard creaks in the hall.
That’s my cue.
I crack the door, and there she is, hair damp, sweater soft, eyes bright but restless. A little too awake for this hour, with something she’s trying not to show.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to.
I grab my jacket and nod toward the back stairs.
We slip out into the night.
The town’s asleep. Even the crickets sound tired. Our shoes crunch over gravel as we cut through the side path toward Main. Above us, the sky stretches thick with stars, and the streetlamps cast small golden islands across the pavement.
Ahead, the town square awaits. The empty benches we claimed at seventeen sits there like a ghost of the past.
We don’t talk, but it’s an easy silence.
She walks with her hands deep in her pockets, scuffing the pavement. Glances at me now and then but looks away. Whatever we didn’t say upstairs, we’re carrying it now.
She flicks a pebble into the dark. “This town still holds secrets.”
“It does,” I say. “Mrs. Jensen’s garden gnomes roam at night. Careful not to wander too far into the shadows.”
“Maybe if I do, they’ll take me as one of their own. No taxes, no emails, no responsibilities.” She smiles faintly, mostly to herself.
I snort, shaking my head. “Nice try. I’m not letting you disappear that easily this time.”
She laughs softly, surprised, like she didn’t expect me to say it out loud.
We keep walking, the sound of our steps falling back into rhythm. The park waits ahead, quiet and familiar.
We cut through it slowly. The swings hang motionless, pale beneath the moonlight. I brush one with my fingertips, and it answers with a long, aching creak.
“Dare you,” she says, tipping her chin. “Highest wins.”
“Please. I always let you win.”
“You always said that after I won.”
She smirks, eyes catching mine. “Classic strategy. Protect the ego.”
I laugh through my nose, sharp and real. Something in my chest eases.
We keep walking past the jungle gym toward the football field, where the grass rolls dark beneath the night sky. We used to meet here after curfew. The goalposts still stand like two dumb promises.
“Race you to the fifty.” Her eyes flash a dare.
“We’re adults now,” I protest, nudging her back as I break into a jog.
She blows past me in three strides, light on her feet. Always has been.
“Hey!” I call after her. “Not fair! I’m too old for this.”
“Excuse me?” she says, hands on her hips, already walking back toward me. “Didn’t we graduate together, or am I losing it?”
I bend over, pretending to catch my breath. “Must be the shoes.”
We laugh there in the middle of the empty field like we’re back in high school again. Two so-called adults pretending the years never passed.
Without meaning to, we start to circle, slow and aimless like gravity’s pulling us back where we left off.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, but a loose strand slips free again. My hand starts to lift instinctively, then stalls.
She fixes it herself, and somehow that tiny distance aches more than it should.
Our eyes catch and hold. Time slows. The world narrows to breath and heartbeat.
At the edge of the field, a sprinkler coughs awake and hisses a warning.
“Looks like we’re about to get baptized,” I say, breaking the spell without breaking the glow.
Her laugh is soft, almost private. The kind you want to earn again.
“Tragic,” she murmurs. “This sweater’s not even machine-dryable.”
Before I can answer, the sprinklers erupt, shooting arcs of water across the grass.
We take off, laughing as cold droplets catch us from every direction. I grab her hand, pulling her with me toward the visitors’ bleachers, both of us ducking and weaving through the spray.
By the time we reach the aluminum steps, we’re breathless and damp, drops clinging to our sleeves and hair. The metal hums in the cool night air as we sit shoulder to shoulder, staring at a place that once felt like forever.
I trace my thumb along the railing, searching for the truest thing I can give her.
“Jules, I want to be honest.”
She nods, eyes on the field before turning back to me.
“Me too.”
And just like that, the air between us changes. Like we’ve both stepped past the fence line, knowing there’s no easy way back.
“Okay,” I say, half joking, half hoping she does. “You go first.”
She shoots me a quick look before she retorts. “You can’t be all, ‘I want to be honest,’” she says, mimicking my voice, dramatic, “and then go, ‘but you first.’”
I laugh. “Fair point.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re supposed to be the smooth talker.”
“Yeah, well.” I grin. “Maybe I’m not so smooth with Jules Avery in the room.” I shrug lightly. “Thought I’d see if I could get away with it.”
I shoot her a wink.
Her gaze lingers on mine, and suddenly the air feels thinner.
“There’s no clean way to say this,” I murmur, looking back toward the field. “But I never stopped loving you.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“I swore I’d move on. God knows I tried. There were a few almost-relationships. Good people. Good moments. But none of it ever felt right. Something essential was always missing.”
I pause.
“There were times I told myself it didn’t matter. There are millions of women in the world, right? Eventually one of them should fit.” I shake my head slowly. “But none of them did. Not because they weren’t wonderful. Because they weren’t you.”
She looks at me with shining eyes, quiet and searching.
“Like salt,” I say finally.
She frowns slightly. “Salt?”
I nod. “Nobody notices salt until it’s missing. You can have every other ingredient in the world, but without it…”
I glance down briefly. “Everything just tastes flat.”
My eyes lift back to hers.
“That’s what life felt like without you.”
She laughs softly, though it trembles at the edges. “Only you, Calvin, would compare love to salt and still make it sound sweet.”
Then a tear slips free.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s just been an emotional day.”
“I missed you too, Cal.” Her voice cracks. “My life’s kind of a mess. You sure you can handle that?”
“Handle you?” I squeeze her hand before I even realize it. “Jules, I’ve spent my whole life wishing for another chance with you. And this time, I won’t make you feel like a game.”
Her gaze drops to our intertwined hands.
“You really hurt me,” she admits quietly. “I don’t think I ever fully recovered.”
The honesty of it cuts deep.
“I tried with Evan,” she says quietly. “I really did.” Her thumb brushes over my knuckle and lingers there.
We sit there in silence, fingers laced together, our hearts slowly finding the same rhythm.
For years, I convinced myself she was better off without me. I never imagined letting her leave would wound her more than staying ever could.
The realization hits hard enough to steal my breath.
One tear slips free, and I don’t bother hiding it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Her thumb strokes mine again, slow and deliberate, like she means it.
For a long moment, it’s only us.
The silence stretches between us, warm and unhurried. Our knees brush together, hearts too loud in the stillness. Every word we’ve spoken still hangs in the air, heavy and alive.
I should feel relieved. Instead, there’s a charge under my skin.
She looks at me, then back out to the field, and suddenly I can’t think straight.
If I kiss her now, will she regret it tomorrow?
She’s been through hell these past two days, coming home to the chaos of a wedding, walking away from someone she loved, trying to rebuild herself from the wreckage.
The scent of her damp hair, the sound of her laugh, the warmth of her beside me… it all pulls me under slowly.
But she said she’s a mess.
What if she wakes up tomorrow and thinks I took advantage of that? What if she believes I caught her at her weakest?
I can’t be the reason she regrets this.
So I stay still, every muscle fighting the urge to reach for her.
My thumb brushes lightly across her knuckles.
Our eyes meet again in the dim light.
Funny. I’m always telling my students to take the shot, not to hesitate. But this is different.
She’s different.
We’re different.
She smiles faintly, the same small, knowing smile she gave me the first time we skipped class together senior year. The one that made me feel like we were in on something no one else could see.
“You’re quiet,” she says softly.
I smile back. “So are you.”
Her gaze lingers.
Then she shifts closer, just enough that the warmth of her sleeve grazes mine. Her free hand slides over mine deliberately, answering a question I never dared ask aloud.
“Cal…” she whispers.
She tilts her head, eyes catching the faint spill of light from the nearby streetlamp. Then she reaches, fingers curling into my sweater. The warmth of her touch shoots straight through me.
I cradle the back of her neck, my thumb brushing the soft skin beneath her hair.
And when I kiss her, every year between us collapses into this single moment.
And somehow, her lips still remember me.
She exhales softly against my mouth, and I deepen the kiss, slow, careful, certain. My hand stays at the back of her neck, not pulling her closer, only holding her there like she might disappear if I let go.
When we finally part, a breathless laugh escapes her, half relief, half disbelief.
I breathe it in like a promise.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, avoiding my eyes, and I know she feels it too.
Neither of us speaks.
We don’t need to.
We sit there together while the night settles around us, our breathing evening out even as our hearts continue racing.
Then a yawn slips from her, softening the moment.
I smile.
“Come on,” I say gently, brushing damp hair away from her face. “Let’s head back.”
We walk to the B&B in easy silence, close enough to feel each other’s warmth, but with just enough distance to let the moment breathe.
It feels like a beginning.
But I know better than to mistake a spark for a fire.
When Jules is ready, I’ll be here.
At her door, she glances back over her shoulder.
“Goodnight, Cal. Thank you for tonight.”
“Goodnight, Jules.”
The door closes softly between us.
I stand there a second longer than I should, staring at the wood grain with a stupid grin pulling at my mouth.
Because after ten years of wondering if I imagined us, tonight finally felt real.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow I’m going to show her I’m not the boy who let her leave.