Chapter 5
FIVE
Birdie
May
I made the temporary move to Alabama exactly one week ago, and I’ve been living off of takeout and frozen meals since I arrived. I’ve been swamped with unpacking and organizing my apartment, so proper nutrition has been at the bottom of my list. But I start my new job at Gulf Shores Memorial Hospital tomorrow, so I finally decided to go to the local grocery store.
I’m focusing hard on my list as I walk down the aisles, making sure not to miss any items for the meals I have planned. Having worked at different hospitals, I’ve learned that meal prepping is the easiest and cheapest way for me to eat. I’m always on the go, and every day looks different, so having my food cooked and ready is just one less thing I have to worry about.
Click. Click. Click.
Screeeeech.
I roll my eyes and try to walk faster as my grocery cart makes embarrassing noises with each step I take. It never fails—this always happens to me. Why can’t I ever pick a cart that isn’t obnoxiously loud?
I turn down aisle ten and head straight for the pasta section. I’ve been craving spaghetti carbonara topped with fresh parmesan. I halt my steps, pushing my cart forward a few inches to give myself some room. A small grunt leaves my lips as I stand on my tiptoes and reach for the box of noodles high up on the shelf.
Of course, the one box I need is placed at the very top.
My brows pinch together in concentration as my tongue peeks out of the corner of my mouth. My muscles strain as I barely get my fingers around the edge of the box.
“ Almost…got it ,” I mutter to myself as I stretch my entire body upward. I blow a strand of hair out of my face, wishing I had tied it back into a ponytail or a braid.
Cool air hits my belly, and I know that my gray tank top has ridden up. My jean shorts are high-waisted, but my lifted shirt still shows off a good amount of skin at this angle. Thankfully, I don’t remember seeing anyone else in this aisle but me.
One of the many things I love about living in a beach town is the warm weather. I love being able to wear casual clothes on a daily basis, knowing that no one will judge me because of it. In Gulf Shores, pretty much everyone is dressed like they’re ready to spend a day at the beach.
Once the box is firmly in my grip, I take a step back but quickly lose my balance. I stumble backward, shuffling my feet to keep myself from falling.
“ Shit! ” I curse as I throw an arm out to hold onto my grocery cart.
The cardboard box that started this entire conundrum goes flying as I let go and swiftly wrap my fingers around the handle of my cart for stability. Before I have a chance to catch it, the box crashes against the ground and bursts open.
Dry noodles scatter everywhere. All over the shiny, concrete floor.
This is a disaster. A freaking disaster.
So much for a relaxing grocery run.
I close my eyes, inhale a frustrated breath, and try to keep my temper in check. I exhale through my nose, open my eyes, and prepare to start cleaning up the mess when my eyes lock onto a black head of hair.
It's not just ordinary black hair; it's full, thick, and curly on top.
It almost looks…messy.
“Your hair is messy.”
The first four words I ever said to him.
Anytime I see a man with hair like this, I try to avoid their face. Because I know it won’t be him. It never is.
“Do you need help?” a low, baritone voice asks.
My spine tingles at that voice. It’s familiar in a way that I can’t pinpoint.
I slowly lift my eyes to greet the man with onyx hair.
And my heart stops.
It ceases to beat as all the air leaves my lungs. My throat swells, and suddenly, I feel like I can’t breathe.
His eyes widen at the same time mine do.
No.
There’s no way.
There’s no fucking way.
My eyes don’t know if they should look at his muscular arms, long legs, icy-blue eyes, or the freckle beneath his bottom lip. His jawline is sharper, his nose straighter, and his lips fuller.
Everything about him is different but the same.
I’m in a complete and utter state of shock. Callum Pierce is standing six feet away from me. In a grocery store. In Gulf Shores, Alabama.
The boy who stole my heart and never returned it is standing mere inches away from me.
Except he’s not a boy anymore. He’s not the eighteen-year-old kid that quickly became my first love. He’s a man now. A complete stranger that feels oddly familiar. A distant memory that doesn't seem real.
Callum’s dark hair is shorter on the sides and longer on the top. His curls wisp against his forehead, temples, and over the sides of his ears. Thick eyebrows frame his blue eyes, which used to remind me of the clear sky, but now, they remind me of the deep sea. He used to say that his nose was too big for his face, but it’s clear he’s grown into it with time.
Everything about his face is more perfect than I could ever remember.
His smooth, tan skin has faint freckles from the sun, freckles that he didn't have the last time I saw him. Faint lines frame the corners of his mouth and eyes, with one line etched between his brows.
God, he’s aged so beautifully.
And his lips. Christ , his lips.
When I was a love-sick teenager, if you had asked me what feature I adored most about Callum, I would have told you his lips. They’re full and smooth, and the top is perfectly proportioned to the bottom. Even when his lips are flat, he almost looks like he’s pouting.
I’ve dreamed about those lips. I’ve cried because of those lips.
I remember him being tall, but not this tall. He must be at least 6’2”. His shoulders are broad, and his legs are long and thin, like a swimmer’s. He’s dressed in casual clothes, a forest green T-shirt and jeans. A pair of black reading glasses are folded into the collar of his shirt, which is new to me. I don’t ever remember Callum wearing glasses.
But I haven’t seen him in over ten years. He’s older now, almost thirty. And eyesight is one of those things that can fail us as we age.
How are we almost thirty? How was it twenty-one years ago that I finally mustered up the courage to speak to the boy on the bus?
How have I been obsessing over this man for over half my life?
How is that fair?
“ Birdie Wren ,” he exhales, and my eyes snap up to meet his. Hearing my name fall from his lips—in this new, manly voice—has my chest constricting.
His tone is breathless, full of utter disbelief.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to see him again. I’ve practiced what I would say at least a thousand times.
I would tell him how angry I am at him for leaving me. I would ask him why he never called. I would scream at him, showing him the shattered human he created. I would curse him for stealing my heart, robbing it so I could never give it to another man.
Then, I would ask him if he missed me. And most importantly, I would tell him how much I fucking missed him.
And if he had a good enough reason, I would forgive him. I know I would.
But now that he’s here, standing directly before me, I’m completely speechless. I seem to have forgotten every word in the English language.
I knew I would be angry if I ever saw him again, but I don’t think anything could have prepared me for how absolutely gutted I feel right now. I had spent so many nights wondering what could have happened to him, coming up with explanations—ranging from simple to outlandish to sometimes even dark—because anything was better than considering he might have went away for no reason at all. I even convinced myself that maybe he was sick, that perhaps he left because he didn’t want me to see him that way.
But he’s here.
And he’s beautiful. Healthier than ever.
And I’m so fucking mad.
“Birdie,” he repeats, running a shaky hand through his curls. “Oh my God.”
His eyes dart between mine. They scan down my body, taking in every inch of me. Remembering the old me while memorizing the new me.
He steps toward me, and I take a giant step back.
“No,” I croak, shaking my head. “Don’t.”
I can’t do this.
I don’t owe him anything.
He abandoned me. How dare he leave me like that? I never changed my number. He’s had a decade to at least send me a text.
I walk backward, leaving my cart and spilled noodles in the middle of the aisle. My vision blurs with unshed tears.
I’m still facing him. For some reason, I can’t turn away.
“Birdie, please,” he begs, striding toward me. “Please, just give me five minutes.”
Five minutes.
Those two words cause my blood to boil.
He can kiss my ass.
I halt my steps and stare at him, right in his gorgeous blue eyes. A tear slips down my cheek as I reply through clenched teeth .
“You’ve had ten fucking years, Callum,” I clip. “Eleven, to be exact.”
His body flinches as if I’ve stabbed him.
Good. Because he wounded me years ago, and my cut is still bleeding.
“Goodbye,” I whisper before he has a chance to reply.
I turn on my heels and quickly head for the exit.
“ Dammit, Birdie. Wait! ” I hear him shout as I all but sprint out the door. I think he’s following me, but I’m unsure because I refuse to turn around.
If I look at him again, I’m afraid I’ll never leave.
Five minutes after getting into my car, I pulled off into a post office parking lot before I got in an accident for reckless driving. My hands are shaking. My lungs are failing. And my heart is beating at a rhythm that’s scaring the shit out of me.
The sun is setting, painting the sky a vibrant mixture of red, yellow, and orange—so many colors—so opposite of how I feel inside.
My fingers tremble as I reach for my phone and call my sister. She’s the only one who knows my true feelings for Callum. She was the one who took care of me when he wrecked my entire world.
“Hey, B,” Winnie answers after one ring. No matter what, she always picks up my call.
“Hey,” I reply, my voice cracking. She instantly knows that something is wrong.
“What’s going on?”
“I…” I trail off. “Winnie...”
I inhale a jagged breath as a tear rolls down my cheek.
“What?” Concern fills her tone. “What is it?”
I swallow the lump in my throat before responding.
“He’s here,” I mutter .
I don’t have to tell her who. Because she already knows. For me, it’s only ever been him.
“What do you mean, he’s there?” Her tone is full of shock.
“He’s here, Winnie,” I repeat. “In Gulf Shores.”
“On vacation?”
She has a point. Gulf Shores is a popular tourist spot in the summertime.
“I don’t know,” I reply weakly. “It didn’t look like it. He was grocery shopping in casual clothes.”
“Wait, what?” she questions, sounding puzzled. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
I spend the next few minutes telling Winnie about running into Callum at the store. A long beat of silence passes before she responds.
“I can’t believe it,” she breathes. “After all these years…”
“You should have seen him, Winnie,” I return. “He looked…better than I could have ever imagined. Happy and healthy, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. He said he wanted to talk to me like no time had passed.”
"Well, that makes sense,” she retorts. “I'm sure after seeing how gorgeous you've become, he just blacked out. It’s been over a decade since he’s laid eyes on you."
I furrow my brows.
“Are you trying to defend him?” I ask, my tone sharp. “Excuse me if I'm not exactly willing to slap on a smile and move past everything as if he didn't shatter my heart in two. You should know that better than anyone."
"Of course I know that, Birdie. I'm just trying to rationalize it. And besides, who says he's moved past anything? You can’t always judge a book by its cover. He may look great on the outside, but he might be fucking miserable on the inside. And I sure as hell am not defending him. I wish I could have been there to kick his ass for you. ”
That makes me chuckle.
When the line goes silent, I finally whisper, “I hate him, Winnie.”
Translation: I love him . And I wish I could hate him, but that’s simply impossible.
“You have every right to be angry, B,” she agrees. “But it has to feel good to know that you’re the one who walked away this time. And hopefully, you’ll never have to see him again.”
“But what if I do?” I murmur. “What if he lives here?”
“Thousands of people live there, Birdie,” she assures me. “If he does live in Gulf Shores, it’s highly unlikely that you’ll see him again. But I bet he’s just there on vacation. It’s May, which is the start of beach season. That city is about to be flooded with tourists.”
Tourist season is the main reason I got this job. The hospital needs extra staff in the summer.
“I hope you’re right.”
I don’t think I could bear seeing him again without having a complete breakdown.
“Are you busy tonight?” she asks. “Around nine?”
“No, why?”
“Because I want to talk more about this when I’m not in a rush,” she answers. “I’m about to walk into class.”
I almost forgot that she has a night class on Sundays.
“Right,” I reply. “Yeah, I’ll be free whenever.”
“Perfect,” she adds. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Sounds good…And Winnie?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you please become a famous actress already so I don’t have to work anymore?” I say jokingly. “Then, I can just be your assistant and travel the world with you.”
She chuckles. We’ve always fantasized about that being the dream .
“That’s the plan, sis,” she quips. “I have to run. I’ll call you in a few hours. Everything is going to be okay, I promise. You’ve survived all these years without him. Don’t let him tear apart all of your progress now. I love you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I love you too.”
After we hang up, I shift my car into drive and head home.
I let a few more tears fall, wipe them away, and promise never to cry over Callum Pierce again.