Chapter 29
Callie
I’m standing on the sidewalk of Main Street, helping Macy with her vendor booth. Her mom was supposed to help but bailed last night at the last minute. Something about wanting to go to the store this morning before the streets filled up with too many people.
Mitch is home with Landon. Thankfully he doesn’t have to work today, so I get to be here without checking my phone every two minutes.
Macy’s small business is her heart. Watching how far she’s taken it in just two or three years is honestly incredible.
She started with a folding table, a dollar-store tablecloth, cheap plastic shelves, and a handful of each product.
Now she’s got custom signage with her logo, real tablecloths, greenery tucked into the display, dark-stained wooden boxes, framed price signs, and everything laid out with intention.
It’s all color-coordinated with soft purples, pinks, greens, and yellows. Muted but still feminine. Earthy without trying too hard. It looks like something you’d expect to see in a boutique, not set up on the side of Main Street for the afternoon.
She started with body scrubs—peppermint, coconut brown sugar, lavender lemon, coffee.
Now there are so many scents I can’t keep track.
She rotates them seasonally, I know that much.
She’s added lip balms, sunburn lotion, body butters, bath salts.
While some people sell a few items at a time, Macy mostly sells in bulk now, to shops in town, neighboring towns, places that reorder regularly.
She’s trying to get into a few bigger names.
If that happens, she’ll be set. But even now, she’s successful.
The business has outgrown the spare bedroom in the duplex and is creeping into the rest of the house.
One room looks like a mini warehouse. Her bedroom has shelves of product along one wall.
Half the kitchen is dedicated to ingredients and packaging.
It works for now. Perfect space for just her.
But if she ever meets someone, gets married, she’ll need more room. No question.
A hand touches my shoulder.
“Well, how is the wedding planning going for you, Miss Callie?”
I turn to see Mrs. Banks from the grocery store. One of those women everyone knows. Always smiling. Always in everyone’s business.
“Me?” I laugh lightly. “Oh—I’m not engaged.”
Her smile flickers, just a fraction, and she glances at Macy like she’s misheard something.
“You aren’t? I could’ve sworn I heard you finally were.”
Finally.
The word lands wrong. Sharp. Heavy.
Because this wasn’t Mitch’s fault. It was my choice.
He asked last summer. He proposed. And I said no.
I said I wasn’t ready.
And I hate that it’s framed like he failed to do something, like he’s dragging his feet or is holding back. Like I didn’t make the call. Like I didn’t need time.
There’s this automatic expectation with him. Everyone assumes he’s ready, willing, waiting. And he just shrugs it off. Says it doesn’t bother him. Says the last thing he’s going to do is explain the truth to a woman he only runs into at the store or church.
I smile anyway. Because that’s what you do.
“Not yet,” I say gently. “Soon, though.”
Mrs. Banks’ expression softens immediately. “Oh,” she says, nodding now. “Well, that’s good.”
“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my smile in place.
She glances down the street, then back at me, lowering her voice like she’s sharing something important. “That baby needs both parents,” she says simply. Not harsh. Not unkind. Just…certain. “And it’s good you’re thinking about doing things right.”
The words hit harder than she probably realizes.
I swallow, my smile tightening just a bit. “He has both of us,” I say. “Always will.”
She pats my arm, completely unaware. “I know, I know. You kids are doing great. Everyone can see that.”
Kids. She moves on after that, waving at someone across the street, already done with the conversation.
I turn back to the table, hands busy straightening things that don’t need straightening. My chest feels tight, like I need a deeper breath than I can get.
I know what she meant. I do. But knowing doesn’t stop it from sinking in anyway.
That baby needs both parents.
As if he doesn’t already have them. As if Mitch hasn’t shown up as much as he can. As if love and commitment only count if they’re in a contract and sealed with a ring.
I turn back to the table, busying myself with Macy’s display, straightening lip balms that are already straight, adjusting a price sign that hasn’t shifted all morning.
And then I start to spiral. What if everyone thinks I trapped him? What if they think we’re selfish for not being married yet? What if they think Mitch is stuck instead of choosing me?
“Callie,” Macy calls out. My eyes snap to her. “Don’t give it another thought. She’s old and knows nothing about anything.”
I nod but it’s not believable. “I just— I mean…marriage is a huge deal. And I don’t understand people wanting two young people to jump into it just ’cause we made a mistake and had a baby. It feels like everyone’s watching. Like they’re waiting for us to fix it.”
Macy sighs, softer now. “People always think they’re entitled to an opinion in a small town.”
“She said ‘he needs both parents,’” I murmur. “Like he doesn’t already have them.”
Macy’s jaw tightens. “Right, because you know the truth, I know the truth, everyone who cares deeply for you guys knows. Explaining yourself to everyone isn’t worth it. Someone will still get it wrong and make other assumptions. You can’t win, and it’s just how it is, unfortunately.”
I swipe at my eyes quickly. “I just hate it. And I’m scared that Mitch feels pressure. If these people are saying this to him too, then how can he not feel it?”
“Callie. Mitch loves you. He’s loved you for a long time. Don’t forget that.”
I nod, but the thoughts don’t fully quiet.
“What if I just said yes last year,” I whisper. “We could’ve avoided all this drama and everything would’ve been easier.”
Macy tilts her head, steady. “You don’t know that. What if you did the bravest thing by not rushing into something just to make other people comfortable.”
That sticks. I like that.
The noise of Main Street hums around us again with voices, laughter, footsteps, and for the first time since Mrs. Banks walked away, my chest loosens.
By the time I get home, the sun is fully out, bright, hot, melting my mascara right off.
Mitch is sitting in one of the old wooden chairs, baby monitor on the table beside him, laptop balanced on his knees.
He looks up when he hears the car door, smiles, and sets the laptop aside like nothing on it matters more than me.
“Hey,” he says. “Got her all set up?”
“Yeah,” I say, climbing the steps, each one creaking differently than the last. “It looks really good.”
“Landon’s sleeping,” he says.
“Is he?”
“Out for about ten minutes now.”
He stands and pulls me into a hug—tight, grounding, the kind I didn’t realize I needed until I’m already melting into it. He kisses the top of my head before letting go.
I sit in the chair beside his, glance at the laptop screen—numbers, invoices, business stuff—then at the baby monitor, grainy and quiet.
“You look tired,” he says. “You up a lot last night?”
“Not too bad,” I admit. “But yeah. I’m tired.”
“Sorry,” he says softly. “Someday soon enough it won’t all be on you.”
“Yeah.”
The word comes out flat, not nearly as hopeful as I mean it to.
He notices immediately. “You good?”
I stare out at the yard instead—the answer sits heavy on my tongue.
“Calliope.”
I look at him. He only uses my full name when he’s serious.
“What’s wrong?” He reaches out, pats my leg twice, steady.
I swallow. “I’m just…I’m struggling with this marriage idea, Mitch.”
His brow creases. “Why?”
“Because everyone’s expecting it. Waiting for it. Including me.” I pick at a loose thread on my shorts. “And it’s getting blurry.”
“What’s getting blurry?”
“The reason,” I say quietly. “Like…am I wanting to marry you because I love you? Or because of Landon?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just watches me.
“Can’t it be both?” he says finally.
The question catches me off guard. I blink. “I never thought of it like that.”
“Can’t it?” he asks again, gentle.
“I mean…” I hesitate. “Can it?”
He nods slowly. “I think so. I think it’s good that it’s both.
” He leans back in his chair, eyes drifting out over the yard.
“I read this thing the other day—about how marriage isn’t always this fairy-tale feeling.
It’s not just butterflies and big moments.
It’s choosing someone. Over and over. Even when life’s messy. Especially when it is.”
I really look at him then.
“I don’t feel trapped,” he says quietly. “I feel…committed. There’s a difference.”
My throat tightens.
“And yeah,” he adds with a small smile, “Landon’s part of our story. A big part. But he’s not the only reason I want this. I want you. I want us. The whole thing.”
The cicadas buzz louder, the air thick and warm around us. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower starts up. Normal sounds. Ordinary life.
I nod slowly. “That helps,” I admit.
He reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “We don’t have to rush it for anyone else. Not the town. Not church. Not anybody.”
I squeeze his hand back, leaning into the quiet of the porch, the steady hum of summer wrapping around us.
For now, that feels like enough.
The quiet stretches between us, cicadas buzzing loud in the trees. Mitch shifts in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He watches me for a second, like he’s deciding something.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Yeah?”
He tips his head toward himself, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Come sit with me?”
I hesitate for half a second, just long enough to feel my pulse kick up, then stand and cross the small space between our rocking chairs. He reaches for me immediately, hands warm and sure at my hips as I lower myself onto his lap.
The chair rocks with the added weight, slow and uneven. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me in until I’m tucked against his chest, my legs angled to the side. It feels natural. Familiar. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“You okay?” he asks again, quieter now, his voice near my ear.
I nod. “Yeah. Better.”
His thumb traces a lazy line along my side, just above the waistband of my shorts.
“I hate that people make you feel like you’re on a timeline,” he murmurs. “Like you owe them something.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He leans in, forehead brushing mine first, our noses almost touching. “You don’t.”
Then he kisses me.
It starts slow, gentle, checking in, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. The kiss deepens, his mouth warm and familiar, and my hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. The rocking chair sways beneath us, the movement steady and rhythmic.
His hand comes up to my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek as if he’s grounding himself as much as me. When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to breathe.
“We’re solid,” he says, firm and sure.
I nod, breathless. “Yeah.”
He kisses me again, longer this time, before resting his forehead against mine, exhaling slowly. His arm tightens around my waist, holding me there like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.
The baby monitor crackles softly on the table beside us. We both pause. Then laugh quietly.
“Of course,” he mutters.
I smile against his shoulder, settling back into his chest as the chair rocks on. And for the first time all day, the noise in my head finally quiets.