Chapter Fifteen
Max
“Sir,” a pilot is coughing over his words, scrambling to stand up as we walk into the plane. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Re—”
“Thank you. Are we running on time, then?” Callan interrupts the pilot, passes a glance between them and extends his hand.
The pilot that is sitting takes Callan’s outstretched hand with a nod.
The other previously sputtering pilot looks down at Callan’s hand like it carries the plague and visibly leans backward.
He reaches out and shakes Callan’s hand anyway, in what looks like the most uncomfortable handshake I’ve witnessed.
“Great, thanks.” Callan pays the odd reaction no attention, turning into the cabin and taking a plush white airplane seat at a small, glossy wood table.
He gestures for me to sit next to him, but I hesitate.
What have I gotten myself into here?
I look behind me, head turning slowly, glancing at a pretty flight attendant who has just shut the door to the plane behind us. I roll my lips together. Well, that literal and figurative door is now closed.
With a few tentative steps, I sit across the table from Callan instead of next to him. The flight attendant walks up, setting two napkins on the table along with a short glass of brown liquid in front of Callan.
“My name is Denise, I will be your flight attendant today. Sir,” her words drip sweetness at him, gesturing at his glass, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me to even acknowledge her, so she turns her attention to me. “And for you, Miss…?”
Her words trail off in question.
Was she asking for my name or my drink order?
Callan seems to have the same thought, as his head snaps up to look at her, to answer one question or cut off the other. “Water, two. That’s all. Thanks.”
His eyes catch on my scrunched expression. He wasn’t rude. He was polite, but curt. I just haven’t heard him talk that way to anyone. Almost like he is in charge. Like when people say, ‘Just pretend you own the place.’
Realization dawns on me and I force my expression to stay neutral. Does he own this jet?
“We have anything else you might want,” he sighs, realizing his tone was rough, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just needed her to step back. They’re always so eager to attend.”
“Perhaps that’s in the job title: flight attendant,” I deadpan back.
“Is nosy in the job title? ‘Cause they’re also good at that.” His eyebrows rise as he takes a sip.
I cut the shit.
“We are on a private plane. Did you win the lottery in the past seven years since I’ve seen you, Callan? Because the last time we were together, you were selling your car to start paying off your student loans, or at least that’s what you told me.”
He sighs, “There were never any student loans, Max. I specifically said I needed to sell my car. You assumed it was for student loans. And I just didn’t correct you.”
My face scrunches up again.
“Then why would you sell your car?”
“Because where I was going, I didn’t need that car.”
“Where can you go in this country and not have a car other than, perhaps, Manhattan? Were you in the Big Apple, Callan? Going to Broadway shows and living it up on the Upper East Side with Gossip Girl?”
“Nope,” he pops the word between his lips and leans back in his seat as the flight attendant sets two glasses of water in front of us, turning to leave without a word. “I just had other cars and didn’t need that one. I was done with it.”
Other cars. Cars, plural?
“Okay, so recap: cars, plural. Jet, singular? Is this an accurate picture of your assets?”
“Not even close, but it’s a start, we can do net worth next if you want,” he laughs and looks out the window as the plane starts to move slowly.
My eyes narrow at him. Net worth? Who the fuck is this guy?
I’m starting to feel like there must be laughing gas in this jet because I find myself almost shaking holding in absurd giggles.
I swallow them down.
“Where were you, Cal? What is this?” I gesture around the plane, and my elbow hits the table on the way down. “Ow.”
I rub the edge of it and sit back as we prepare for takeoff.
“I want to explain everything, I’m just not entirely sure I have the right words to explain it.
” His eyes meet mine as the flight attendant appears again, extending both arms to our seat backs and tapping the seat belts near our shoulder before walking to the back of the plane.
She shuts herself behind a door in what appears to be a separate room—rooms, on a plane?
He hesitates and draws a hand over the scruff of his jaw. “God, Max, I don’t even want to explain it. I don’t want to bring you into this. I don’t want you in this. But I’m going to try.”
Callan is silent as the jet lifts into the air. His eyes stay on me, contemplative. Contemplating what, I still don’t know. And who knows how long we have for me to find out. We could be flying to Mexico for all I know. But I won’t derail this conversation again with other questions.
I look out the window and see the small runway disappearing beneath us as we rise into the clouds. I fix my eyes on him with my best glare.
It’s hard to glare at him. He’s so handsome with his perfect hair and all that tan, ink-dipped muscle. The tortured expression he’s wearing isn’t half bad, either.
No, Max—no tanned forearms, we are focused on his secrets.
I remind myself of all the reasons that I should be wary and not thinking about how good he looks in this moment, sleeves rolled up and collar unbuttoned.
Callan has been gone for seven years. And before that, yes, we were together almost every day, but he had secrets then, too, clearly. And we only knew each other for two years. Where was he before that?
I start ticking off the things I know about Callan for sure:
He is from somewhere on the East Coast—Providence, Rhode Island.
He did get a law degree—obviously he passed the bar because he’s practicing, but I know he didn’t sit for it with Patrick. Because Patrick made a big deal about ‘your golden boy bestie didn’t even show up to take the bar’ when he got home from the exam.
He likes whiskey—that hasn’t changed.
He is smart—like really smart, not just the book kind of smart.
He was constantly noticing things about people when we were out together then and now.
Overhearing conversations and putting pieces of puzzles together that I didn’t even know existed.
One time, he deduced by someone’s outfit and what they had inside their backpack that they had lost their apartment or been kicked out.
He even went as far as subtly ‘running’ into them five minutes later and getting them to admit it, just so he could start a conversation to offer resources in the community.
Which leads to another thing I know for sure about Callan: he is convincing as hell. He could sell water to a fish. He is charming and makes friends with everyone. And everyone wants to be his friend.
Well, except Patrick. Which is one more thing I know is a fact: Callan despises Patrick. Always has. And that makes him willingly working for Ellison & Parker even more confusing.
His voice startles me from my thoughts.
“When I left home for college, I did it as a way to rebel against my family. My father…” His eyes roll towards the sidewall of the plane, and he lets out a breath. “He was always a certain way and raised his eldest son to be the same.
“But, to his dismay,” his lips tick in the smallest smile before fading back to nothing. “I turned out the exact opposite of how he hoped. I refused to be groomed to take over the family business. So, I left. And he cut me off.”
My hands feel numb in my lap. Callan and I were together constantly for two years, and I never remember him specifically mentioning his dad, definitely nothing about a family business or being cut off from what appears to be obvious family money.
He continues, “I was fine with that. I made my own way through my undergrad degree, barely talked to my father those four years. When I started law school, my brother reached out a few times trying to mend fences, and my sisters begged me to come back. I’d visit occasionally when I could afford to, but it wasn’t often.
My mom would call in tears on holidays, but I wouldn’t go back if I couldn’t live my way.
And he wasn’t going to let me live my way. ”
His eyes are looking anywhere but at me.
My heart breaks a little for him. He came home for Christmas with me one year, but that was in the early days of my relationship with Patrick…
when Patrick wasn’t a complete ass to everyone.
Once Patrick decided Callan wasn’t worth his time, Callan all but refused to be around him.
I knew he spent holidays around campus, but I didn’t know it was because he was estranged from his family.
“During my second year of law school, he called me basically from what we thought was his deathbed,” he lets out a scoff with a shake of his head, “to guilt-trip me into coming back. I was able to put him off for a while, but then my mom called, and it got harder to say no. They touted ‘reconciliation’ and ‘fixing it before it’s too late’ or some such shit. ”
I stay silent, I have no business pretending to personally understand these family dynamics. His second year of law school is when we met, and I never would have guessed he was going through any of this.
He stares out his window before scrubbing a hand across his clenched jaw. “So, I went over the summer. It was that summer when Patrick took you on vacation, so you wouldn’t have noticed I was gone.”
This comment makes me sad. If I had known he was going through this, I could’ve… I don’t know. Held his hand or something. Been there for him. Just like he was always there for me.
“I stayed for a week, talked with my father, and I made sure they knew I wasn’t giving up on my own goals—I wasn’t giving up finishing my degree.
But very, very slowly, calculated, my father weeded himself into my head during that last year.
He was sick that whole year, but well enough to get to me. He was a distraction.”