Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Callaway
I’m the idiot who can take a slapshot to the ribs, grin for the cameras, and call it a good shift—when Vesper is around I turn into a man who can’t fucking leave.
I shouldn’t stay.
I know the list of reasons. I can recite it like a lineup: boundaries, common sense, the fact that Monty is in the next room and we’re all one bad choice away from detonating the fragile truce we’ve been duct-taping together since the check-up in Seattle.
But Vesper is standing at the edge of her bed, pulling pillows off it with grim determination like she’s preparing for war.
“No,” she says. “I’m not doing this again. I won’t let you sleep on the couch. You’re staying in my bed.”
“You don’t have to—” I start, because my reflex is still to give her space even when my body wants the opposite.
“I do,” she cuts in, and the look she gives me has teeth. “I’m pregnant. I’m exhausted. And according to your book, I’m hormonal.” She gives me a smug look. “That’s a dangerous combination, Cally. If I wake up tomorrow and have to watch you pretend you don’t have sciatica, I’m going to bite you.”
I blink. “You’re going to—”
“Yes.” Her chin lifts. “Like a rabid raccoon. Now get in the bed.”
This is her defense system. Sarcasm. Threats. A bright smile taped over fear. Like humor is a lock on the door and if she keeps it bolted, nothing gets in.
Except her hands tremble when she places a pillow between us. Just a small shake. Barely there. Like her body is arguing with the act she’s putting on.
She climbs under the covers and points at the empty side like she’s issuing an order to a soldier. “Get in bed.”
“I sleep naked,” I warn her, because I’m me and I can’t help trying to lighten the air before it crushes her.
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t pull a muscle. “You don’t. Yesterday Monty gave you a pair of shorts. Go get them.”
“They’re in the laundry hamper.”
Vesper exhales through her nose like I’m personally responsible for every inconvenience in her life. “Of course they are.”
Then she gets out of bed—still in her sweater, barefoot, hair in a messy bun that makes my chest hurt—and storms toward Monty’s door.
I follow at a distance because if I’m going to be scolded, I’d like a front-row seat.
She knocks.
Hard.
There’s a pause. Then movement. A curse that sounds like Monty. A door unlocking with the reluctance of a man dragged out of his fortress.
“What took you so long?” Vesper demands.
“I was getting dressed,” Monty says, voice rough with sleep and irritation.
“You only have on a pair of shorts,” she fires back.
“Yeah, and I was about to go to bed.” Then he adds, sharper, “Are you okay? Did he finally leave?”
“No,” she says, and I can hear the eye roll in her tone. “But he needs shorts to sleep.”
“He has a hotel room,” Monty snaps.
“Yeah,” Vesper says, as if she can’t believe she has to explain this, “but he wants to stay tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence, the charged kind, the one that tells me Monty is staring at the ceiling like he’s asking for patience.
Then he growls, loud enough for me to hear, “You’re a pain in my ass, Winthrop.”
I lean closer to the doorframe, because I’m incapable of not poking the bear. “I could be a pleasure too.”
“Don’t you fucking start,” Monty warns.
Vesper doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t have time to referee tonight. So both of you stop whatever it is you’re doing. Now—shorts.”
More ruffling. A drawer opening. Something thrown. A muttered curse that sounds very close to fucking idiot.
Then the door shuts.
A minute later, Vesper returns with a pair of shorts in her hand like she’s bringing home a prize she hunted herself.
“Here,” she says, shoving them into my chest. “Go change.”
I take them, and I want to laugh, but I don’t. Because her eyes are too bright.
Because this isn’t bossy Vesper for fun.
This is Vesper trying to keep control of something—anything—before her emotions get the better of her.
I go to the bathroom and change quickly, stripping off my clothes. The shorts are soft. Familiar. Monty’s. The thought should feel wrong.
It doesn’t.
When I come back out, Vesper is already in bed, her brown eyes fixed on the ceiling like she’s trying to mentally climb through it. Her hands are folded on top of the blanket, fingers tight.
I ease into the bed carefully, as if I’m not allowed to disturb whatever fragile peace she’s built for the next few hours.
Like I’m one wrong move away from watching her bolt.
“Okay,” I say quietly, trying to make it light. “I’m here. Nice mountain of pillows.”
“Don’t get cocky, Winthrop,” she murmurs. Then she keeps staring at the ceiling like it’s holding the answer to how to survive her own thoughts.
She breathes in. Breathes out. Tries again, like she’s practicing being okay.
Then, without looking at me, she says, “Can I ask you something without you making it . . . a thing?”
I turn my head toward her. “You mean without me turning into someone who tries to fix your feelings with snacks and affection?”
A small sound escapes her—almost a laugh, if her voice wasn’t strained. “Yes.”
“I’ll try,” I promise, because I mean it. “Ask.”
Her fingers pick at the edge of the pillowcase, worrying the fabric like it owes her answers.
“Why couldn’t you two just . . .” She stops. Swallows. “Why couldn’t you ditch me and still be best friends after that night?”
My breath catches. The question is a blow to my system. She’s asking like she’s already convicted herself. It’s as if she’s been holding that guilt for years and never let herself speak it out loud.
She keeps going, words speeding up like if she says them fast enough they won’t hurt as much. “I hate myself for being the one in the middle of whatever it was you two had back then. Four years of friendship and . . .” Her voice breaks on the last part. “I broke it.”
I roll onto my side, careful not to knock the pillow wall, careful not to crowd her. “Ves—”
“Don’t,” she says immediately, like she can smell a lie coming. “Just . . . answer.”
I take a breath, exhaling slowly.
“I could never ditch you,” I say. “Even if I tried.”
She finally looks at me, eyes sharp with fear and irritation and that tenderness she refuses to name. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I say softly. “You meant . . . why didn’t we cut you out so we could keep our friendship.”
Her lips press together. She nods once, like she hates herself for the question and still needs the answer.
My chest aches. I want to pull her into me, tell her she never had to earn love by being easy to love.
But she asked for honesty, so I give it to her.
“Because it wasn’t just you who I loved,” I say. “It was never just you.”
She goes still.
I keep my voice gentle because I’m stepping onto thin ice and I know how fast it can crack.
“That last summer,” I say, “we crossed a line we’d been circling for years. And I don’t just mean you and me.” I swallow. “I mean me and him.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“We’d always had these . . . moments—Alberto and me,” I say carefully. “The same accidental touches you and I had—those happened with him too. The way we looked at each other. The way we reacted. We kept pretending it was nothing.” I exhale, my throat tight. “It wasn’t nothing. We wanted it.”
Vesper’s gaze drops to the pillow between us like it suddenly matters more than my face.
“So we all . . .” Her voice is thin. “That night.”
“Yes.”
And then she does what Vesper always does when something hurts—she turns it into a blade she can hold.
“It wasn’t crazed teenage sex,” she says, almost angry. “We loved each other. And you two treated it like it was . . . a mistake.”
My chest clenches.
“I was fine the next morning,” I admit, and it tastes bitter. “At least, I acted like it.”
Vesper lets out a breath that isn’t a sigh, not really. “You were so casual. Like it meant nothing.”
Because if I let it mean something, then I had to admit how deep it went. I had to admit I wasn’t playing around anymore. I had to admit I wanted more than I’d ever been allowed to want.
“I thought if I made it light,” I say, “it would be less scary. For you. For him. For me.”
She swallows. “And Monty?”
My jaw tightens, not at her—at the name. Because it still does things to me. Because he’s still in the next room and I can practically feel him through the wall like an old bruise you forget you have until you press it.
“Monty woke up mad at the world,” I say. “Mad at himself. Mad at me. Maybe a little at you.” I shake my head slowly. “Like he’d been pulled into something he didn’t agree to . . .”
Vesper’s voice is barely audible. “But he did.”
“I know,” I say. “He did. He wanted it.” My throat feels raw. “And he hated himself for wanting it.”
She nods once, eyes glossy. “He wouldn’t look at me at first.”
“I remember,” I whisper. “I remember him putting his clothes on like armor. I remember him acting like the room was on fire.”
Her voice turns soft, broken. “And you . . . you kept smiling.”
I wince. “Yeah.”
Because my smile is what I use when I’m terrified. It’s what I use when I feel too much and I don’t know where to put it.
“And then,” Vesper says, and it’s not anger—just pain, “you both decided I had to choose.”
The word choose hangs between us like a threat.
I close my eyes for a second because I can still see it—her face crumpling, her hands over her mouth like she was trying to keep herself from making a sound, her voice cracking when she said it was impossible.
“You cried,” I say, barely above a whisper.
Her exhale shakes. “Yeah.” A pause. Then the truth, stripped bare, “Because you two were my entire world. My everything. I measured life by summers. When would I see you again until . . . I didn’t.”
My throat burns.
I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and rest my fingertips on the pillow between us—right on the border she built, like I’m asking permission.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and the words are too small for what I mean. “I’m so fucking sorry.”