Chapter 37 Caleb
O'Malley's hits me with a wall of noise and cheap beer. Saturday night means the usual mix of locals and tourists, all bathed in that familiar neon glow that makes everyone look a little less real.
Joey raises an eyebrow as I claim a spot at the bar. "The usual?"
"Double. Actually, make it two and keep 'em coming."
The whiskey hits my system, a familiar lie burning just enough to pretend it's helping. Joey's already lining up another when they appear, the universe tossing me a lifeline I'm not sure I want to grab.
"Is this seat taken?"
Three girls hover nearby, all in curated denim and flawless makeup, radiating weekend getaway.
There's a calculated air to them. The kind of girls who post bad decisions online, dressed up in flattering filters.
The blond is wearing some overhyped perfume that's working as hard as her smile to get attention.
"I'm Lucy," she says, sliding onto the stool next to me. Behind her, a redhead and a brunette giggle. "These are my friends Kenzie and Charlie. We're visiting for the weekend."
A month ago, this would've been my favorite kind of easy. Tourist girls looking for their small-town adventure story. No messy feelings, no morning-after awkwardness. Just another chapter in someone else's vacation memoir.
Come on, Miller. Remember the script.
"Lucky you found me then." I let my mouth curve into a smile that used to be instinct. "Consider me your personal tour guide to all of Hallow's End's worst decisions."
The brunette, Kenzie—I think—leans in. "Really?"
"Oh yeah. I know all the secret spots." The words taste stale. But they're giggling, so I guess the performance is working. "First stop, tequila shots. Joey!"
They cluster around me like moths to a particularly dim flame. Lucy's hand finds my arm, and Charlie laughs at everything I say. It should feel good. A win. Something I can hold onto.
But Charlie's laugh isn't the one I want to hear. Lucy's perfume makes me think of lavender and citrus and everything I'm trying to forget. And Kenzie . . . well, she's not looking at me with bright blue eyes.
Fuck.
"Another round!" I call out, too loud. Because if I keep drinking, if I stay in character long enough, I'll remember how to be the guy who wanted this.
"You must work out," Charlie purrs, her fingers tracing my bicep. A year ago, that touch would've been the start of something. Now it makes me want to shower.
"Sometimes." I scan the bar. Dammit, where is James? I need backup. Need—
"Caleb!" His voice cuts through the noise, and thank fuck, finally.
"James!" The forced enthusiasm in my tone is obvious, even to me. "Come meet Charlie, Lucy, and . . ." I pause, feigning forgetfulness as I turn to Kenzie. "Sorry babe, what was your name again?"
"Kenzie," she purrs, but her attention shifts to James instantly. Good. Watching her strike out with my emotionally constipated best friend will distract me from this hollow performance I'm giving.
"So, you're the famous James," she says, all bedroom eyes and strategic touching. "Caleb was telling us you own your own business."
Behind her, I give James encouraging nods.
Come on, man. Take the bait. Show me how to move the hell on.
"Not really." He barely glances at her.
"He's the best," I jump in, because silence means thinking, and thinking is dangerous tonight. "You should see him handle a wrench."
"I'd love to see your garage sometime," Kenzie suggests. "Maybe you could . . . show me around?"
James extracts himself from her grip with ease. "Actually, Caleb here knows way more about tools than I do."
"Oh?" She's not taking the hint. "But surely you could—"
"Caleb's the real expert," James interrupts, already backing away towards the bar. "He was just telling me about his novel. The one about the bartender with a double life?"
"Navy SEAL," I correct, falling into the familiar made up story. "It's based on my time in the service."
"You were in the Navy?" Charlie asks, clearly intrigued.
Of course she is. Because she doesn't know my most impressive mission was beating Matt's high score in Mario Kart. Because she wants the story, not the truth. No one ever sticks around for the real thing anyway.
Except Ivy.
I launch into another completely fictional mission. The girls lean in closer, hanging on every word, and I hate how easy this is. How simple it would be to just be this person again. The one who makes up stories and stays detached from anything real.
Night blurs into a haze of tequila shots and hollow laughter.
The girls are dancing now, all grinding hips and raised arms, putting on a show that would've had old-Caleb on his knees.
But all I can think about is that fucking dance lesson.
Ivy in that tiny white dress, her body moving against mine like she was made to fit there.
James retreats into his whiskey, that familiar haunted flicker in his eyes that screams Daphne. Something dark twists in my gut, not because he's spiraling, but because I recognize that look. Saw it in my own reflection this morning, right before I convinced myself I was imagining things.
"So," I drop into the seat next to James, letting tequila fuel the ugliness I've been swallowing all week. "This is getting pathetic, even for you."
"What is?"
"This whole . . ." I wave my hand at him, at the way he keeps checking his phone like she'll text. "Brooding mechanic routine. You haven't come out in months, and now Daphne's back for five minutes and suddenly you're too good for perfectly hot girls?"
I'm being an asshole, and I know it. But watching James pine after Daphne makes me frustrated. Because he's got the balls to put his heart on the line and risk everything. While I pushed Ivy away the second she got too close.
"This has nothing to do with—"
"Please." The word comes out sharp. Because if I'm going to be miserable, at least I can drag him down with me. "You've been whipped since freshman year. One look from Daphne Summers and you turn into . . ." I gesture at him. "Whatever this is."
"Fuck off."
"I'm just saying, she probably has some hot-shot doctor boyfriend back in Cresden." Each word is carefully chosen to hurt, because if I make his pain loud enough, I'll stop hearing Ivy's voice in my head. "He probably drives a Tesla, and volunteers at animal shelters on weekends."
His hand tightens on his glass, and it's clear I'm taking my own cowardice out on him. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"No? Because this feels exactly like senior year. When you spent three months following her around like a lost puppy before she—"
"Don't."
"Fine." I throw back my shot, letting the burn match the self-disgust churning in my gut. "But when she leaves again—because she will leave again—don't expect me to pick up the pieces. I'm done watching you destroy yourself over Daphne fucking Summers."
"Nobody's asking you to."
"Right. Because you're fine. Totally fine."
Just like I'm fine.
We're both so fucking fine we're choking on it.
"Drop it."
"Whatever, man. Your funeral. But those girls?
" I nod toward the dance floor, where they're still putting on a show neither of us really wants to watch.
"They're actually interested. And they're actually here.
Unlike some people, who are probably planning their escape back to their perfect city life right now. "
He escapes to the bar, and I let him go. Because I'm a shit friend tonight. Because it's easier to be bitter about his drama than admit I had everything I wanted and sabotaged it myself.
"Dance with us!" Charlie tugs at my arm, and I let myself be pulled into the crowd because at this point, I'm desperate enough to try anything.
The music hammers in my head, a generic country remix coating the room in something glossy and empty. Charlie moves against me with the ease of someone used to being watched, her friends shifting into place around us.
I fall into the rhythm, tracing steps I once knew without thinking. Grab her hips. Pull her close. Whisper something that makes her giggle.
God, I hate myself right now.
"Your place or mine?" Charlie breathes against my ear, and something inside me splinters. Because this—this exact moment—used to be my favorite part. The tipping point.
Now it just feels like a car crash in slow motion.
"I . . ." My voice cracks, and suddenly I can't breathe.
Can't pretend. Can't keep playing this part when every cell in my body is screaming that it's wrong.
That everything about this night is one giant exercise in proving something I stopped believing in somewhere between sharing a room with Ivy and that damn kiss.
"Bathroom," I choke out, practically shoving her away. "Be right back."
The fluorescent lights hit different now—less exposing, more accusing. I grip the sink, water dripping from my face, and finally let myself confront the truth I've been avoiding all night. I'm not just scared of wanting Ivy. I'm terrified of who I am without her.
The door creaks open and I straighten, but my smile in the mirror looks more like a wound. Because that's what this is. The death of who I used to be, happening in real time in a bathroom while some stranger's perfume fades from my skin.
When I step back into the bar, the girls are gone. James is still at his post, guardian of the whiskey and bad decisions.
I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over Ivy's name. Three dots appear in our text thread, and I tighten my grip, waiting. Hoping she'll say something first.
The dots disappear.
I drain my glass and signal Joey for another.
But this time, it's not about pretending last week never happened.
It's about drowning out the voice in my head that keeps asking: what if I'm not running from Ivy at all?
What if it's the version of me who actually tries?
Who finally wants something enough to go after it?