Chapter 16 Did We Just Trauma Bond? #2
I laugh, a short, bitter sound that catches in my throat. Because what else am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you? I know? You're wrong? The words are simple but they pierce through the defenses I've built around my relationship.
And then, suddenly, it all comes out, words spilling from me like water through a broken dam. The floodgates open, and I can't stop the torrent.
"It's just...I know I should leave," I say, voice cracking under the strain of finally saying it out loud.
"I know it's bad. I know Evan treats me like shit.
I know I should be furious at him for what he did today.
But I—" I break off, shaking my head, hands gesturing helplessly in the air. "I don't know what else to do."
Callahan stays quiet. He doesn't try to fix it. Doesn't try to fill the silence with empty words or easy solutions. Doesn't tell me what to do or how to feel.
He just listens.
And for some reason, that makes the words come faster, makes me want to tell him everything, like lancing a wound to release the poison. The relief of finally speaking these thoughts aloud is like sucking down a breath after a lifetime without air.
"He wasn't always like this," I say, voice thick with emotion. "Or maybe he was, and I just ignored it. I don't know anymore. He used to at least... pretend to care about me. Now it's like I'm some—some project. Something he's working on. Something he needs to fix so I'm finally good enough."
I don't realize how close Callahan's standing now.
Or maybe I do.
Maybe that's why I keep talking. Because if I stop, if I let the silence settle, I might have to actually think about what I'm saying. Might have to face the reality of my relationship, of my choices, of the person I've become. The words keep flowing, filling up the space between us.
I lick my lips, exhaling hard, feeling my throat close up with emotion. The taste of salt lingers on my tongue from the tears.
"My mom was...she was really hard on me growing up," I admit, and I can hear how raw it sounds, how vulnerable.
"About my weight. About how I looked. She'd pick apart my diet, make comments about how much I was eating or whether my clothes fit differently.
I love her a lot, and I know she meant well.
But, it always felt like there was this. ..this expectation, you know?
"I think when I got with Evan, I was still—" I pause, laughing bitterly, wiping at a fresh tear that escapes.
"I mean, twenty-five is still young, right?
I thought I was grown, but I wasn't. And when he started doing the same things, saying the same stuff about my body, my weight, what I should eat. ..it wasn't a red flag."
I finally look at him directly, my chest tightening as the full force of his attention settles over me.
"It just...matched."
I swallow, blinking fast, willing the tears to stay put, to stop betraying me. The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, but I push through.
"It wasn't a shock. It wasn't even new. It was just another person telling me what everyone else always told me."
My attention drifts toward my desk, where a small trophy sits half-hidden behind my monitor—regional archery champion, three years in a row.
A relic from when I was fourteen and could outshoot all my brothers, when I was confident and fearless, when I didn't care about being pretty or thin or acceptable.
Before I started caring what anyone thought about my body.
The gold-plated figure atop the marble base catches the light, a reminder of a different version of myself.
"The stupid thing is," I continue, finding my voice again, steadier now, "I've always been good at things.
Really good. Weird things, random things my brothers taught me, yes, but also things that matter.
I graduated top of my class in business.
I can forecast sales trends better than anyone at corporate.
I built a tracking system that's reduced our inventory loss by sixty percent. "
I gesture to the spreadsheets on my desk, to the careful notations, the complex calculations that come so naturally to me.
The pages are filled with my neat handwriting, numbers and projections organized into a system only I fully understand.
"I can tell you exactly which items from the spring collection will sell out first and which ones we'll be marking down.
I can spot a counterfeit handbag from across the store. And yet..."
I shake my head, frustration coloring my voice. "And yet somehow none of that matters as much as the fact that I gained thirty pounds over the last three years."
I shake my head again. "But now, I don't know. Something feels different. I feel different. And I don't even know why."
Callahan's jaw is tight, his hands flexing slightly at his sides, like he wants to grab something, hit something, fix something.
His body is tense, coiled with a controlled anger that isn't directed at me but at the situation, at Evan, at the world that made me feel this way.
The muscles in his forearms stand out as he restrains himself.
And for some reason, that makes me feel better.
Like maybe I'm not crazy for finally realizing something isn't right.
Like maybe it's okay to feel different.
Like maybe I'm allowed to change.
I didn’t realize how close Callahan's standing now.
Not until I turn and suddenly he's right there, only inches away, his presence filling the space around me.
I inhale quickly, the sudden proximity sending a jolt through me.
The scent of him envelops me. I force a weak, watery laugh, embarrassment washing over me now that I've said so much, revealed so much of myself.
"Oh my gosh," I say, rubbing my hands over my face, trying to erase the tear tracks, to regain some semblance of professionalism. The cool metal of my rings presses against my heated skin. "I don't know why I just told you all that. That's so inappropriate. I—"
I shake my head, mortified. "I am so sorry," I mutter. "You probably don't—"
But he cuts me off.
"It's okay," he says, firm, certain, his deep voice leaving no room for argument.
And something about the way he says it, about the steadiness in how he looks at me, makes me believe him. Makes me think that maybe it is okay, that maybe I haven't completely embarrassed myself, that maybe he doesn't think less of me for falling apart.
I let out a slow, unsteady breath. Then, half-laughing, half-scoffing, I shake my head again.
"I don't mean to be unprofessional," I say, voice still shaky, hands gesturing vaguely, "but honestly, you wouldn't get it. I mean, objectively, look at you. The most beautiful women must throw themselves at you constantly."
His entire posture shifts.
I don't notice it at first.
But his shoulders go rigid, tensing beneath his shirt. His brow furrows and I look into his eyes. His eyes, always intense, darken with something I can't quite read.
And then, in a voice lower than before, rougher, he says, "I was engaged once."
That catches my attention. It's such an unexpected revelation, so personal, so at odds with the controlled, professional demeanor he always maintains. The confession hangs in the air, weighty with unspoken meaning.
He exhales through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest, a gesture that seems more protective than casual.
"So, I do get it," he says. "I've been dumped in probably the worst way possible."
His words tug at my chest, making me ache for him. Because Callahan is so...him.
Confident.
Unshakable.
Intimidating in his competence, his control, and in his sheer physical presence. The idea of someone throwing him away?
It doesn't make sense.
It shouldn't make sense.
And yet, here he is, standing in front of me, saying it like it's just another fact of his life. The vulnerability in the admission takes me by surprise, makes me see him differently.
I swallow, bracing myself for whatever comes next. My heart beats a little faster, waiting.
"What happened?" I ask softly, almost afraid to break the moment, to push too far into territory he might not want to revisit.
He's staring at somewhere else now, some far-off place in his head. His eyes are unfocused, looking past me, past the office, into memories I can't see. The lines around his eyes seem deeper suddenly, etched with old pain.
"I got orders to deploy. We knew it would be hard," he continues, voice measured, controlled, like he's reciting facts rather than sharing something deeply personal.
"But we decided we'd try to make it work.
I spent my entire savings on a ring. My enlistment bonus, too.
Then I left. Went off to war. And while I was out there, she wrote me a letter. "
I don't move.
I don't even breathe.
Everything feels suspended, waiting.
He lets out a slow, measured exhale.
"A Dear John letter," he says, the words flat, emotionless.
I frown, not recognizing the term. "What's a Dear John letter?"
He looks back at me, something heavy behind his eyes, something old and painful that's never quite healed.
"It's what women used to send their husbands or boyfriends during the war," he says, voice carefully controlled.
"A breakup letter. So by the time the guy got home, he already knew she'd moved on. "
I swallow hard, a knot forming in my throat. The office suddenly feels too small, too intimate for this conversation.
I don't know what to say.
Tension rolls off him in waves, and when he speaks again, it's quieter, more measured, like he's choosing each word carefully. "Her letter told me she met someone else," he says. "That she was ending things."
Something twists in my chest, an ache of sympathy, of understanding. To be alone in a war zone, facing death daily, and get that news—I can't imagine the pain, the loneliness, the betrayal. The cruelty of it is breathtaking.