16. Peyton
Peyton
Having a functional stepladder is very handy, as it turns out. Being able to reach for things in this back closet has already made my life immensely easier. All thanks to Callum, of course.
He said this particular brand of stepladder is the “gold standard for compact safety.” He had a whole speech about “deep treads” and “handrails,” but I was too distracted by the sage green of it all to listen closely.
“You found a stepladder with these green vine decals on it?” I asked him when he showed up at Good Taste unannounced, ladder in tow.
“Oh. Um, Clover said that the stepladder was ugly. And I didn’t want it to, like, screw up your business or something, so I just got some decals that reminded me of the walls at your office.”
I can’t stop thinking about him. My mind wanders to his chin dimple at the most inconvenient times. I should already be back in the front, decorating with Romy, but I’m pining after these damn ladder stickers.
I need to pull myself together—we’ve already made plans to see each other after he finishes his inspection at the food truck down the block. Focusing back on the task at hand, I grab the winter decorations box on the top shelf before heading back to the front.
“I want to hear all about the Harvest Festival,” I tell Romy, setting down the big cardboard box.
“You first,” she replies dryly.
I wag a finger at her. “Nuh uh. You’re not getting out of this one.” I cut through the tape on top of the box with scissors. “Didn’t you go with the guy you’ve been seeing? Asher?”
Romy sighs. “The only place I’ll be seeing Asher from here on out will be family reunions.”
I drop the scissors. “You’re kidding.”
Romy smacks her lips together. “Third cousin. It’s not illegal, but it feels illegal.”
“What about Leah? You two were really sweet together.”
“Moved to Chicago. Not the small-town type.” She reaches in for the strand of silver twinkle lights and hands me one end. “But enough about me. What’s the tea with Cal at the festival?”
“What do you mean?” I string up my side, winding it around a tack in the wall.
“I saw him with this other dude in front of a tree behind the donut and cider line.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What other dude?”
“This tall guy.” Romy tacks up her side of the wall. “Dark hair, light brown skin…”
I snort. “Are you talking about DT?”
Romy blinks. “Who?”
“Never mind.” I reach for one of the fake, tabletop evergreen trees. “So, you saw Callum standing by this other man near a tree. And you want to know…”
Romy shakes her head and slides the small table in front of the window. “They were sitting in front of the tree. And—DT, was it?”
I nod, wondering why I even tried with his name—Romy knows nothing about football.
“Well, DT had his arm around Cal. And Cal was, like, shaking. Super pale. It looked like he was maybe crying or having trouble breathing or something. I don’t know. Shit looked intense.”
Huh? I set the small tree on the table, and then brush off my hands on my pants. “What do you mean by shaking?”
Romy looks sheepish. “Sorry, I wasn’t spying or anything. I was just standing nearby when it happened. Either way, when DT steered him behind a tree, Cal looked off.”
Crying… shaking… trouble breathing… Did Callum have a panic attack?
A sting of sharp distress pricks my skin, along with an immediate need to comfort him. Empathy rushes to my heart, followed by a very alarming thought.
If he did have a panic attack, that means… He didn’t tell me.
That realization lands deeper than I expect, crashing into my chest all at once. I can almost hear the blood rushing to my head. Learning this information second-hand feels like a small betrayal.
I need to talk to him. Now.
Setting the box of faux snow-frosted branches in front of Romy, I try to gather my bearings enough to sound normal. “Can you add these to the tall vases? I’ll be right back to finish the window display.”
“Um… sure.”
Based on the wary look on her face, I don’t think I successfully portrayed someone who’s fine. But there’s no time to explain, so I shrug on my jacket and tie the belt around my waist, all but flinging open the front door.
I march in the direction of the food truck down the street in a huff. How could he not tell me?
Almost immediately, another thought crosses my mind. He may have a good reason.
My feet stop moving. It’s true. I don’t know the reason behind why he chose to keep it from me. I don’t even know if it was a panic attack. I need to relax. Slowly turning around, I take a deep breath and walk toward my office.
But I told him about my stuff. The frustrating retort rattles around in my brain, and I spin back around. I laid myself bare to him, and he’s going to keep secrets from me in return? I walk with purpose to the food truck again.
Just because you told him doesn’t mean he has to tell you. The softer side of me takes hold, gently reminding me that people move at their own pace. What am I doing, trying to confront him like some sort of Feelings Marshal? I shake my head, turning around and walking back to Good Taste.
But… He told my friend’s brother before me. And that hurts. While Callum doesn’t owe me anything, the thought of Callum trusting Daniel more than me cuts deep. Even if it wasn’t a panic attack, it was still something. Something he didn’t tell me.
I pivot on my heel, spying the food truck in the distance. It’s good to talk it out. I need to talk it out. If I don’t, I think I’ll burst.
But when I reach the red light of the crosswalk, a sobering thought echoes in my mind. He might not have had a choice.
God. Of course, he didn’t have a choice.
He was with a stranger when it happened.
Am I being selfish by making this about me?
Plus, I don’t even know if Callum has triggers.
All he’s told me is that he takes meds for mental health “stuff.” That he was going through a tough time when Sarah broke up with him. That could mean anything.
The light turns green, but I stay still, considering my options. The cold wind whips my cheeks, reminding me that I’m very much outside.
Even if I’m being a little selfish, I’m not going to treat him like glass. I wouldn’t want anyone to tiptoe around me. At the end of the day, whether my feelings are self-centered or justified, they’re my feelings, and he deserves to know them.
But… he’s not perfect.
Well, neither am I.
The crosswalk timer expires and turns red again. I take it as a sign and drag myself back to the office. On my way, I catch Bill from Everything But the Water-Ton: Baths and More staring at me from his front window, probably wondering why I keep turning around.
My heart is beating so fast. I want to give Callum a chance to explain, but I’m also riddled with questions, and—beneath it all—I’m hurt. I’m hurt that he kept this from me. I have every right to ask, but I want to ease into it.
“Hey, Pey. What a nice surprise.”
Callum’s voice breaks up my thoughts, and I swivel around to find him standing behind me on the sidewalk.
His lips curve into a soft grin. “I just finished my inspection and saw you walking, so I—”
“When were you going to tell me what happened at the Harvest Festival?” I place my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath.
So much for easing into it.
“About…”
“About what happened with Daniel.”
He swallows. “Did he tell you?”
“Jesus, Callum. Does it matter how I found out?”
He shakes his head. “No, I—”
“Was it a trigger?”
Callum drops his chin to his chest, looking completely defeated. “Yeah.”
I sigh, trying to slow down. “Let’s go somewhere more private and talk about it. Maybe the library.”
“Alright,” he says quietly.
We walk into the library just behind us, and Doris, the town librarian, says hello. Giving her a short wave and walking as quickly as possible, I pass the children’s section until I find an unoccupied study room. He walks in first, slumping down in a chair, and I follow, closing the door behind us.
I pull out the chair across from Callum, sliding into it before I realize it looks like an official interrogation.
Quickly moving around to his side, I take the seat next to him instead.
“I’m sad that you didn’t tell me. I had a panic attack in front of you.
I’ve let you in, and… you’re, what? Confiding in everyone but me? Why?”
Callum drums his fingers on the table nervously. “I’m sorry for not telling you what happened at the festival. Honestly, I was embarrassed, and I didn’t want to ruin your day. You were having such a great time with your friends, and I really wanted to make a good impression.”
“I get that.” My heart aches for him.
He rubs his temples. “I should’ve let you in sooner. But I also just didn’t want you to think of me differently. You’re healing, too.”
“We’re both healing, Callum.”
“I know, and I’d already planned to talk to you about it on our coffee date today. Even at the festival, I told DT that my intention was to tell you as soon as possible. And I’d still like to do that—now, if that’s okay.”
I lean forward, giving him my full attention.
He takes a steadying breath. “You know that I’ve always kind of referred to what’s going on with me as ‘mental health stuff.’” His shoulders tense.
“I have Uncomplicated PTSD from something that happened a very long time ago. The ‘uncomplicated’ means that my trauma stems from a singular event. I’m not necessarily ready to give you the play-by-play of that yet, because there are some things that I want to do first—goals I want to accomplish.
DT doesn’t know those details, either. But I’d like to tell you about it one day. If you want to know.”
We both sit with what he said for a minute. I want to make sure that what I say next is going to come across as supportive. I’m about to reply, but he speaks again before I can, his words tumbling out in one big breath.
“PTSD can sound scary, especially if you’re unfamiliar with it. There are a lot of stereotypes out there. Like having it means I’m unpredictable. Unstable. That people with PTSD can’t be trusted to manage it on their own. But that’s not always the case.”
“Callum, I’m not—”
“My medication helps, and I have coping mechanisms I use when I’m triggered. If those don’t work, it just kind of manifests in me as sadness. You don’t have to be afraid that I’d get angry, or—”
“Callum.” I cover his hand with mine. “Please don’t worry, because I’m not worried. I know you’re taking care of yourself. This doesn’t change anything for me, or the way I feel about you.”
I watch some tension slide off his shoulders as he relaxes into his chair.
“I’m sorry if it felt like I forced you into this. Not just into sharing, but into going to the festival. Had I known…” I trail off. “When you’re ready one day, I’d like to hear about what happened and what the triggers are, just so I can better support you. Okay?”
“Yeah.” He rubs his thumb up and down my hand as a lock of his auburn hair falls in front of his forehead. “But you didn’t force me to share or to go. I wanted to meet your friends. And I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t ready.”
I nod. “Well, for what it’s worth, all my friends have their own shit. Frankly, it’d be weird if you didn’t have things going on.”
He removes his hand. “Hey. Don’t go too hard on my man Daniel.”
We both burst out laughing, and when we settle down, I can’t help but notice the relief in his eyes. “Thanks for being so understanding, Pey.”
“Thanks for telling me.” I blow back a flyaway from my forehead. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“If it was me with you at the festival, is there anything I could’ve done to help you through it?”
He clears his throat. “There’s this coping mechanism I use—tapping. Do you want me to show you?”
“Yes. Anything you want to show me, I’d love to learn.”
Callum hums. “There’s a few different ways you can do it, but I prefer what’s called ‘a butterfly hug.’ Kind of a strange name, but the left-right rhythm of tapping just below my collarbone supposedly mimics REM sleep. It helps ground me.”
“Show me,” I say softly, not wanting to disrupt his process.
“Can I touch your hands? Get you in the right position?” he asks, waiting patiently for my answer.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Sit tight.” He gets up and stands behind me.
Picking up my right hand, he flips my palm around so it’s facing my chest. Then he moves my hand over the left side of my chest, letting go when the tips of my fingers hover just below my collarbone.
He does the same thing with my left hand on the other side.
“Very good,” he murmurs, delicately pinching each of my thumbs to interlock them in the middle of my chest.
“I see why they call it the butterfly.” My voice comes out quiet, and I don’t move.
“Now, I want you to think of someplace you feel safe and happy.”
With you. In your arms.
“Got it, Pey?”
I inhale deeply. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Now start tapping, alternating left and right. Take some breaths in and out. Yes, just like that. You’re a natural.”
The praise puts a small smile on my face, and I keep tapping.
“Eight taps per side. I’m going to stop talking now. You can close your eyes, if you want,” he says gently, heading back to his chair.
While I tap, I think of the first time Callum hugged me. The feel of his body against mine, the citrusy smell of his neck. I take slow, deep breaths, as though my head is nestled above his shoulder, closing my eyes to better visualize it.
After I’ve finished the full cycle of 16 taps, I pause and open my eyes.
Callum is sitting casually, elbow on the table, watching me. Every one of his features looks soft, pleased. “This can work for anxiety, too, you know. Maybe you could tap the next time you want to sock me in the face.”
My eyebrows raise to my forehead in mock offense. “Don’t tempt me.”
Callum’s responding grin sparks my own. With the juxtaposition of his gentle demeanor, the light ribbing, and his calm reactions, it’s hard to look away from him.
I still don’t know everything, but this was another step to understanding him better.
And I’m okay with ‘slow and steady wins the race,’ as long as we’re still us at the finish line.