Chapter 19
Mitch
Callie and I sit on the porch swing, the chains creaking softly as we rock. I got here later than I meant to—work dragged—but her mom fed me anyway, insisted I take a plate. We’ve been out here ever since. Just us. The night hums with cicadas, the porch light on and flickering every few seconds.
“You think your parents are up still?” I ask, leaning in to kiss her, slow and soft.
She smiles against my mouth. “I’ll check.”
She slips inside, careful and quiet, leaving the screen door to sigh shut behind her. I rock the swing with the heel of my boot.
I stare out into the dark yard, fireflies blinking, the air thick and warm around me. We’ve sat on this swing a hundred times—laughing, talking about nothing and everything at the same time.
But tonight, for the first time, I know exactly what I want to say. Tonight’s the night I plan on telling her I love her. Right here. On this porch. It’s perfect.
When she comes back, she closes the door carefully and sits beside me again.
“They’re not downstairs,” she whispers. “They’re in their room. TV’s on.”
“Good,” I say, relief loosening something in my chest. I kiss her again, longer this time, my thumb tracing circles over her knuckles.
We linger there for a minute, the sounds between us quiet and soft—her sigh warm against my mouth, my breath low and steady. But she pulls back before I can.
“I was looking at apartments today,” she says, smiling.
I nod. “Oh yeah?”
She pulls her phone out, scrolling. “Yeah, there aren’t many options.”
“I believe that,” I say.
She turns the screen toward me. “This one’s not awful.”
“Where’s that? By the feedstore?”
“Yeah,” she says, scrolling through the pictures.
“It’s expensive,” I say carefully.
She shrugs. “Most of them are.”
“Yeah.” I hesitate. “I just don’t know if it’s the right time.”
The porch light buzzes faintly. Somewhere down the road, a truck passes. I feel her stiffen.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…” I pull my hat off and rake a hand through my hair, nerves racing through me before I shove it back on. “I don’t want us to rush into that and end up wasting money or doing it the wrong way.”
“Waste money?” Her voice is sharp.
“I just mean—”
“We’re having a baby in the spring, Mitch,” she argues.
I swallow. “I know.”
“And I don’t think our parents are going to want us living under their roofs with a newborn,” she continues. “Mine won’t. And yours…”
She trails off, but I know what she means.
“Definitely won’t,” I finish.
“So I don’t see how it’s a waste of money. It’s a must,” she says, looking at me. “I don’t think we’ll have a choice.”
I nod slowly. My chest tightens. “I just don’t want us making a decision out of fear.”
“And I don’t want to be standing here in nine months wondering where we’re supposed to live with a baby due,” she says, snappier now. “No one is going to decide for us; we have to take control, Mitch.”
“I know that, Callie,” I say, my voice tighter. “I know. All I’m saying is, give me some time to figure some stuff out. Numbers and—”
“Time feels like something we don’t have a lot of.” Her jaw tightens.
“Yes we do,” I argue, “Because you haven’t even been to the doctor yet, so until we can for sure know it’s happening, I’m not gonna stress out.”
“It’s happening, Mitch!” Her voice rises. “I’ve been sick as a dog, I’m tired, I’m—”
“Hey.” I hold my hand up. “Can you not yell at me, please?”
“I’m not yelling.” She settles back against the swing, her arms crossing. Silence stretches between us.
“I don’t want this to turn into a fight,” I say.
“Neither do I,” she replies. “But it feels like we’re already in one.”
I stand. “I need a minute.” Guilt is already crawling up my spine. “I’m not leaving,” I say quickly. “I just need a cigarette—”
“Okay,” she says. “Go.”
I hesitate, wanting to say something that fixes it, something that puts us back where we were ten minutes ago. But I don’t know how.
The first drag steadies me. Burns just right. I let it sit in my chest for a second before exhaling, watching the smoke cutting up through the dark. My head rests back against the window, eyes closed, thoughts spinning. My thoughts are too loud.
I take another drag, slower this time, because this is the only thing that makes the world slow down.
Spring. Apartments. Expectations.
I blow smoke into the night, realizing for the first time that loving my best friend isn’t going to be a walk in the park.
That we’re still two different people who are going to have to compromise.
I get that. I really do. But something about the baby, how serious it’s making everything, turns every thought sharper, heavier.
Like the future’s suddenly right in front of us instead of somewhere far-off we can ignore.
I flick the cigarette butt into the gravel, grind it out with my boot, and stare up at the moon for a long second before heading back.
Callie’s still on the swing when I climb the steps. It’s not moving now. She’s sitting upright, arms folded loosely around herself, staring into space like she’s been replaying the same thoughts I have.
I stop a few feet away. “Babe.”
She looks up. Her eyes are shiny, but she’s not crying. Not yet at least. I sit beside her; the swing creaks once.
“I didn’t mean to just walk out like that,” I say. “I just needed a second.”
“I know.” Her voice is quiet.
“I want to talk about it, I just…I don’t want us making choices because we feel pressure.”
She nods slowly. “And I don’t want us pretending like this isn’t happening.”
“I’m not pretending,” I say quickly. “I just think there’s a middle ground somewhere.”
“Maybe,” she says. “I don’t know what that looks like.”
Silence settles between us again. The kind that isn’t angry, just tired.
“I’m scared,” she admits finally, her voice breaking just a little. “I don’t want to disappoint everyone. I don’t want to be the girl who had to move back home with a baby or couldn’t figure it out.”
“You’re not that,” I say immediately.
She swipes at her eye. “I know. But it still feels like that’s how it’ll look.”
I reach for her hand, and she lets me.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, even though I don’t know how yet. “I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
She nods, but the worry doesn’t leave her face.
“I think I just need to…” She trails off, then exhales. “Not think anymore tonight. I’m exhausted.”
The words I love you sit heavy on my tongue, begging to be said. But this doesn’t feel like the moment. I don’t want them to sound like a bandage or a distraction or something said just to make the tension ease. Not like this.
The space between us feels too fragile.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll head out.”
And even as I step back, it feels like leaving something unfinished behind.
She stands too, looking up at me. “We’re okay, right?”
I lean down and kiss her forehead. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
She smiles small and I head down the steps.
The drive home is quiet, windows down. I pull into the driveway and cut the engine, sitting there for a second longer than necessary.
When I step inside, the kitchen light’s on. Mom’s standing at the counter, arms crossed.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me.
“Were you smoking?” she tests.
My stomach drops.
“No,” I lie.
She takes a step closer. “Don’t you dare lie to me. I can smell it.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “It was just one.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You’re eighteen. Did you forget what happened last time we caught you doing this?”
How could I forget. A full-blown screaming fest—mostly her. Dad standing there like silent backup, arms crossed, nodding along. She took my truck keys for a week. Didn’t talk to me for another. The punishment lasted longer than the cigarette ever did.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, but it doesn’t matter. She’s already going.
“I don’t want that crap anywhere near me!” she snaps. “It gives me a headache. I don’t want it on your clothes, and I don’t want it in my house.”
I clench my jaw and nod once. “Okay.”
She holds out her hand. “Give them to me. Now.”
“They’re in my truck.”
Her voice drops lower, tighter—worse than yelling. “Go get them. Now.”
I turn around and head back out the door, heat crawling up my neck. Talk about feeling twelve years old.
Why’d they have to go and change the smoking age to twenty-one anyway? This wouldn’t even be an issue if it was legal.
I grab the pack from the console and stand there for a second before going back inside, shaking it once. It’s light. Too light.
When I step back into the kitchen, she’s waiting in the exact same spot, arms crossed, jaw set. I drop the pack into her hand.
She opens it immediately. Counts. Her lips tucked into a thin line. “There are only four left.”
I don’t say anything.
“So where are the rest, Mitch?”
“Gone.”
“Don’t be a smartass,” she says sharply. “How often do you smoke?”
I exhale through my nose. “I don’t know, sorry.” I huff. “I’ve had a lot going on.”
“I don’t care,” she fires back. “Do you think that’s normal?”
“I don’t know. Dad started smoking at fourteen, so why—”
“It doesn’t matter what he did, this is about you!”
“Okay, well, I said I was sorry. I gave them to you. What else do you want me to say?”
She ignores that. “Does Callie know you smoke?”
That stops me cold. “What?” I ask.
“Does she know?” she presses, raised eyebrows and tucked lips, like she thinks I’m hiding them from everyone.
“Yeah, of course she knows.”
Her eyebrows lift more. “And she’s okay with it?”
I laugh once, accidentally. “Considering she’ll sit with me and light one too, yeah. I’d say she’s fine with it.”
Before she can respond, I turn and head down the hall. My blood’s boiling, pulse loud in my ears, head pounding like it’s going to split.
“Hey! I’m still talking to you, damn it!”
I stop and turn back around, heart hammering.
“I apologized!” I snap, my voice rising despite myself. “I handed them over. I answered all your questions. Now what more do you want from me!?”
“Respect!” she growls—actually growls, the word coming out low and vicious.
It makes something in my chest jolt, even if my face doesn’t show it. I half expect Dad to come out of the bedroom, drawn by the noise. Macy’s home too, I know that, but she’s smart enough to stay out of it. Getting involved only drags you deeper into the hole.
Before I can say anything else, she starts yelling again. Actually screaming. The words blur together, sharp and relentless, but I’m not really hearing them anymore. I’m already shutting down.
Because I know how this goes.
Eventually, she’ll run out of steam. And when she does, I’ll say okay, I’ll say sorry, and I’ll walk away. Nothing I say right now will change the outcome. I’ll still get the silent treatment for at least three days—longer if she decides this is something worth holding onto.
So I take it. I let it wash over me and wait it out.
* * *
The next morning feels colder than it should.
I’m at the sink, filling my thermos, when mom comes in like I’m not even there. She reaches past me to grab a mug, her elbow brushing my side hard enough that I have to step back.
“Sorry,” I mutter automatically.
She doesn’t respond.
When I turn, she’s already moved—opening the fridge, standing directly in front of the drawer I need. I wait. She doesn’t move.
I clear my throat. “Can I—”
She shuts the fridge door and walks away without looking at me, shoulder clipping mine as she passes. It’s subtle, but it’s on purpose. Always is.
I grab my lunch and I leave.
I start my truck and back out of the driveway, telling myself not to let her get to me. Telling myself I’m used to it and it’ll blow over. She won’t apologize for screaming but at least she’ll go back to normal.