Chapter 31. Callan
Callan
Damien steps down from the porch, but doesn’t hook an arm around me to pull me into our usual backslapping hug. “We’re going to have a talk,” he says in a gruff undertone.
I arch a brow. “We are, are we?” Apparently, he’s feeling tough enough to boss me around today—maybe because I’m on crutches with my ankle in a support brace.
His shoulder brushes past mine as he crosses the dooryard to the truck. “Come on. We’ll go for a drive.” I left it unlocked, and he pops open the passenger-side door to climb inside.
Irritation flares in my chest and I clench my molars, biting back a retort. Lenore must have told him. I look back at the porch, where she’s watching all puffy eyed. He better not have made her cry.
Noticing me looking, Lenore presses her lips into a weak smile and nods with encouragement.
I blow air through my nose and nod in return.
Yeah, okay, I’ll talk to him. Not because I think we need his approval, but because it seems to matter to her, and that’s all that matters to me.
I toss my crutches into the bed of the truck, bracing one hand against the side for balance as I limp up to the driver’s seat.
Damien is already buckled in by the time I climb inside. “You look like hell,” I mutter, shoving the keys into the ignition and turning over the engine. His mustache is groomed but the stubble shadowing his cheeks is not, and there are deep pits beneath his eyes like he hasn’t slept a wink.
“Thanks, man. Having a newborn around will do that to you.”
An uncomfortable silence settles over the cab as we wobble down the uneven driveway and turn onto the road.
Usually, one of us would crack some stupid joke to break the tension, to make light of our current situation, but when it comes to Lenore, there’s no making light of anything. For either of us.
After a minute or so of aimlessly following the highway north, I clear my throat. “Anywhere we’re supposed to be heading?”
“I don’t care,” Damien grumbles. “Just drive.”
My mind is so cluttered, I don’t have the space to think too hard about where to go, so I default to following the winding road that leads to the lookout point.
Back in high school, people used to drive up here at night to smoke weed or hook up in the back seat.
In the middle of the day on a Wednesday, however, it’s deserted except for one other car: a minivan belonging to a family of leaf peepers, standing at the overlook to snap pictures on their phones.
I kill the engine. “All right,” I say, “so talk.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. We’re both staring out the windshield, across the top of sparse woods, pines, and the rare stubborn oak still clinging to color. In the distance, a familiar white steepled church peeks above the trees.
At last, Damien scoffs a dry laugh and shakes his head. “You could have fucking told me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from answering like a smart-ass. “It wasn’t my decision. Lenore didn’t want you to find out before she was ready to tell you. It’s not like I planned for it to be some big secret.”
“You did, though,” he says sharply. “You’ve been keeping how you felt about her from me for years.” I feel rather than see the look he gives me sidelong before he adds, “Assuming you do feel that way about her.”
“I do,” I bite out.
“But it never crossed your mind that maybe you should mention it?”
“Yeah, because that would’ve gone over well.”
“Better than finding out like this,” he says.
“Speak for yourself.”
“So, what are your—” Damien stumbles over his words, then redirects. “I mean, do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
I snort. “Are you trying to ask me what my intentions are with your sister? Because I don’t think you really want all the details.”
“Do you love her?” he asks bluntly.
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “What the fuck, man.”
“It’s a simple question.”
I toss him a glance. He’s watching me with a look that’s knife sharp, waiting for me to say the wrong thing. “Yeah.” I swallow hard. “I do.” I really fucking do. I always have.
“Have you told her?” he demands.
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
Damien is quiet for a moment, considering. “Maybe it’ll be easier if you don’t.”
I level a shocked look at him, and he holds up his hands.
“Hear me out. The house is already sold, and it’s not exactly easy to come by places to rent in a town this small. She’ll have to go back to New York, at least for now.” His shoulders hunch in a stiff shrug. “Maybe you shouldn’t make things harder than they have to be.”
“What, you mean let her go?” I say. “She’s miserable in New York.”
“She tell you that?”
“Maybe not in those exact words,” I reply hedgingly.
“Look, I’m not saying whatever happened between you two isn’t real,” he says, though I’m pretty sure that I detect a note of skepticism in his tone.
“And I don’t have any problem with it. You’re adults.
All I’m saying is that you might … sway her decision, if you go saying all these things she wants to hear, right before she has to leave. ”
“You don’t think she’s perfectly capable of making her own decisions?” I ask.
Damien winces. “I think it’s possible she’s got her wires crossed between homesick and lovesick,” he says, “and it might be better to give her some time to untangle them before you go begging on your knees for her to stay.”
I stare unseeing at the dash. I’ve had the same thought, which is part of why I took so long to make any sort of move.
After all our conversations, I believe her when she says that I’m more than a distraction …
but we haven’t exactly discussed how serious we foresee this being, and telling her the depth of my feelings runs the risk of complicating matters further.
Except for that promise we made to each other. I want us to be honest with each other, even when it’s hard to hear. Even when it’s hard to admit.
Shit. I drag a hand down my face. “Yeah,” I say, and it sounds like I’ve been swallowing gravel. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Damien says.
Doubtful, but I’m not about to argue with him any more than necessary.
“I don’t believe this.” A breath gusts out of him, transforming into an incredulous chuckle. “My best friend and my little sister.”
I look over at him.
“You are serious about her,” he says, a subtle threat poised behind the question. There’s only one right answer. Good thing it’s an honest one.
“I am,” I say earnestly.
“Well”—he claps an awkward hand on my shoulder—“you better hope to hell she’s serious about you. I’d kick your ass if you broke her heart, but if she breaks yours?” A dry laugh shakes his entire body. “Sorry, bud, but you’re shit out of luck.”