9. Callum
Callum
“Holy shit,” I strain out, clutching my nose, which might be bleeding.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! I am so sorry!” Peyton reaches out as if to soothe me, but then immediately retracts her hand.
“No, no, it’s okay.” My words come out garbled, and a sheen coats my eyes. “Damn. You really got me good.”
“I can’t believe I did that! Are you alright? Should I call the police on myself?” Her panicked voice gets louder, a slight wobble in her tone.
I try to recover quickly from her assault so I can reassure her that I’m fine. Lowering my hand to glance at hers, I’m grateful to find that there’s no blood on either of us. Though, her knuckles look a bit swollen.
She groans. “Fuuuck, my hand. Is your face made of stone?”
“Just regular bones, I think,” I grit out, breathing through my mouth.
Peyton fans her face, which is beet red, and taps the side of her seat in the golf cart.
“So… think this baby is highway-rated? Because I need you to drive me directly to the airport so I can fly to Sweden and never see you again. I’ve always wanted to go, and deep mortification is the perfect excuse. ”
I sniff, wiping at my eyes. “Nah, don’t do all that. I’ll take you to IKEA. Same meatballs.”
My self-esteem and the center of my face are neck-in-neck in the race for what hurts the most right now. It’s hard not to think selfishly, to think it’s me that triggered her and not her aversion. My nose is still running, and I pull a tissue out of the kit I brought to clean myself up.
Peyton’s tone lowers. “I feel like I owe you an explanation.”
“You don’t owe me anything, actually.” My words come out muffled behind the tissue.
She shakes her head. “I want to explain, then.”
“Okay.” I feel like I need to prepare myself for something heavy.
She knots a small piece of her hair, then releases it.
“I used to love being touched. My mom and dad were older when they had me—I wasn’t planned.
They took care of me, but they rarely took care with me.
Whenever I saw my grandparents, though, they’d shower me with physical affection.
Tight hugs, rubbed backs, pinched cheeks.
It soothed me, made me feel love in a way that I hadn’t really experienced before. ”
I nod slowly, but stay silent, leaving her space to share.
She tugs on the end of her hair now, looking past my shoulder.
“When I was scouted by a pageant coach, everyone was thrilled to welcome this woman, who essentially became a third parent, into my life. It was fun at first, but there were so many eyes and hands on me. Stylists, coordinators, directors backstage. Unexpected and unwanted physical contact started to become something I resented. It felt like I was accessible to anyone and everyone, with no say in the matter.”
Peyton doesn’t start talking again, so I fill the silence.
“That sounds really hard,” I tell her.
“It was. Thanks for saying that.” She gives me a half-smile. “I started dating my last boyfriend during the thick of my modeling career. At first, his touches felt affectionate. Hugs, kisses… I craved them again after so many years of despising everyone’s hands on me. But then…”
I can feel the tension radiating from Peyton. I wish I could ground her in some way.
Her eyes lock on mine. “He started to change once we made things official. Only ever touching me in front of other people, at public events, in front of his friends. When we went out, he’d parade me around like a prop, but at home, he, um, ignored me entirely.
I started to feel very on edge when it was just the two of us, like I did something wrong.
Everything was just so unpredictable. I never knew when he was going to touch me, where, and how. Touch became a tool of control.”
I hum with understanding, but what I really want to do is gaze at her in awe. I know how hard this is, giving voice to your trauma, but she’s pushing through it like a champ. She must’ve put in a lot of work in therapy to be able to recount her story like this.
Peyton sucks in a slow breath. “The breaking point happened three years ago. We were at a dinner party with friends, and he was being extra handsy. He kept running his hand up my thigh under the table. I repeatedly told him to stop, but he wouldn’t.
He joked that he had ‘boyfriend privileges,’ and I needed to relax—to quit being so stiff. ”
“The fuck?” I say under my breath, barely audible. Her gaze moves somewhere far away, and I’m not sure she even heard me. She wraps her arms around her waist, like she’s giving herself a hug, and the dull look in her eyes crushes me.
“Anyway, I went to the bathroom to put some space between us. When I came back, he was in the hallway with his buddy, laughing and telling him that he needed to get me really drunk so he could have ‘fun with me’ at home. And I quote, ‘Drunk is how I like Peyton. She lets me do pretty much whatever I want to her and keeps her annoying mouth shut.’”
“Peyton,” I breathe, leaning forward and ducking my chin to meet her gaze. “No.”
“Then I thought back to a few other times I felt safe with him and let loose… and, yeah. I guess I don’t know what happened to me. If he… well.” Her shoulders cave inward. “And, um, I’m embarrassed to say it took me three more months to break up with him after that,” she adds quietly.
“That’s… I don’t even know what to…” I trail off. I’m never going to find the exact right words. So I go with the first thought that comes to my mind. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you went through that. That he put you in that position. You didn’t deserve it. No one does.”
“Now you know why I ran. And why I…” Peyton waves her arm in the air, then yawns. After being so emotionally open—especially given what happened today—she must be exhausted. I’m about to ask her if she wants to call it quits, but she starts talking first.
“God, sorry for trauma-dumping on you. I’ve told this story so many times as a part of my exposure therapy—in support groups, to really close friends.
It gets easier, less emotional, each time, but I know it’s a lot.
I just needed… to get it out there. But that’s probably enough of me talking about that,” she jokes.
While I want to ask questions or provide more support—even just sit with her in silence—it’s clear that she wants to move on right now. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, so I pull out my phone and try to bring some lightness back.
Squinting dramatically at my screen, I ask, “What’s his first and last name? I just want to talk. I have access to government resources, and I’m terribly afraid to misuse them—but this calls for an exception.”
Peyton laughs, sitting straighter in her seat. “Government resources, huh?”
I nod solemnly. “Yep. I’m authorized to view a database that tracks food recalls. Pretty high-clearance stuff.”
She puts a hand on each cheek in pretend shock. “Wow. Are you even allowed to talk about that publicly?”
My mouth presses into a thin line. “No. I actually have a memory eraser in my pocket.” I lift my pointer finger to eye level. “So if you could just look over here and not blink, that’d be great.”
She giggles. “If you wipe my memories, can you leave the first half of this day behind? I’m rather fond of it.”
I lower my hand and duck my head briefly, feeling shy about my wide smile. Because I’ve enjoyed today, too. And if it has to end, I don’t want it to be the end of this—whatever’s between us.
Fiddling with the cart key, I take a steadying breath. “I know today was a one-time thing. But I’m wondering if I could see you again? I don’t want to stop… running into you.”
“Even after the punching? Are you sure you’re not concussed?”
I lower my tone into something gentle. “I’m serious.”
She blinks slowly. “I don’t want to stop running into you either.”
A sigh of relief rushes through my lips as the four most comforting words in the human experience nestle in my mind: It’s not just me.
But I need to be honest with her about something. She should know what she’s getting into with me, how out of practice I am.
Rolling my shoulders back, I fix my eyes on hers. “I want to be up front. You’re the first person I’ve wanted to keep running into in a very long time. So I might… just, sorry if I don’t know how to act around you.”
“Well, you’re the first man—erm, friend, I’ve even considered touching in a very long time. So, sorry if I punch you in the face sometimes.” She shrugs.
A laugh falls out of my mouth. “‘Man-friend,’ already? Wow. Therapy is working wonders on my personality.”
She smacks her lips together. “Yeah, it was definitely your sparkling demeanor that reeled me in.”
“I bet my proficiency in food safety really sealed the deal.”
“For sure. No one knows raw poultry like you do.” Peyton grins. “So, when are we running into each other next, Inspector?”
“Tomorrow morning?”
She giggles, relaxing in her seat. “That soon, huh?”
I run my fingers through my hair, overshooting the ends and awkwardly clawing onto the air behind my neck. Damn you and your junk drawer scissors, Clover.
Sighing, I rub my chin. “Sorry. Am I supposed to pretend that I don’t want to spend time with you? Just tell me how long of a wait is normal, and I’ll call you then.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” She grins. “Tomorrow’s great.
I actually have a job at a brewery about an hour north in Michigan.
They’re launching a new hard cider for fall, and they want thirty-somethings in the art scene to start ordering it.
Management hired a live indie band popular with that crowd, and they’ve hired me to talk the drink up.
The owners mentioned I could bring anyone I wanted—the more the merrier. Do you want to come along?”
I rub my thumb along the stitching in the leather of my seat. “Yes. But with the meds I take, I don’t drink, so I might not be very supportive with helping you sell the product. Is that okay?”
“I don’t mix my meds with alcohol, either. And I’d never drink on the job, even if I could, to be honest. I just hold it in my hand and promote it. No one ever notices. We can fool them together.” Peyton winks.
Playfulness, with that mischievous edge, drenches her features, and an eyelash falls on her cheek. My hand twitches, wanting to brush it off her face, but I keep my fingers glued to my lap.
She adjusts her visor. “We should probably get back to the group.”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t worry about it. They were all going to go look at Johnny’s new Rolls-Royce before heading into the clubhouse. The flattery alone will take them at least thirty minutes.”
She laughs. “Thanks for being here with me. I’ve really liked doing this together.”
When it comes to Peyton Moore, I think I’m going to really like doing anything together.