14. Freddie #2
My magic surges under my skin, pulling at my center, a warm insistence that whispers how stupidly easy it would be to just lean forward those extra three inches. To drag my lips across his, to trace the sharp line of his jaw, to feel what he tastes like.
Looking at his mouth now—the full bottom lip, the soft dent in his Cupid’s bow—I want to. I really want to.
But I can’t. And I won’t.
I slam the mental doors shut, shoving the magic back down into the dark corner where it belongs, but it’s getting heavier every single time I do it. It’s like trying to hold a beach ball underwater with one hand while Callum sits right there, practically taunting it to come back up.
“Right,” I clear my throat, tearing my eyes away from his mouth. “Well. Science wins yet again.”
I try to stand up, but my knees turn suddenly to wet cardboard and the room tilts on an axis.
“Whoa, tiger.” Callum’s hands instantly shoot out to catch my hips as I stumble right into his chest.
I collide with him hard, my palms catching the front of his shirt to steady myself. Beneath my palm, I feel the solid wall of his torso and the cold metal shape of his black tourmaline pendant pressing through his shirt alongside his thin gold chain.
And then my magic snaps. It bursts, tearing through my veins like a tidal wave.
The bathroom and bowl full of milk vanishes, replaced instantly by the suffocating, thick heat of a forest. The air is so humid it feels like drinking warm water, and the sun is beating down through a canopy of leaves, baking the pine needles underfoot.
Standing a few yards ahead on a dirt trail is a boy who can’t be more than fourteen.
He’s as lanky as a newborn colt—all pointy elbows, knobby knees, and a boyish frame that hasn’t filled out yet.
His hair is a shock of fiery red, slathered in way too much hair gel so it sticks up in crunchy, stiff peaks.
He’s got a gap-toothed grin, freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, and a faded navy backpack slung over one shoulder.
And around his neck, glinting in the dappled sunlight, is that exact same thin gold chain.
“Rory, wait up!”
I turn my head toward the sound. A teenage Callum is skulking down the path behind him.
He looks so much like the man holding me right now, yet so jarringly different.
He’s leaner, lacking the broad-shouldered density he has now, but still built with that natural, easy athleticism.
No dark stubble on his jaw, no heavy lines around his eyes.
He’s handsome in an edge-of-manhood way, his blue eyes bright under the summer sun.
Behind Callum, a girl trots down the dirt trail, trying to catch up. She’s gorgeous, with thick auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, striking emerald-green eyes, and a flash of silver braces when she grimaces. Her shoulders and cheeks are dusted with a fresh pink sunburn.
“This isn’t funny, Rory!” she pants, fanning herself with a rolled-up map. “You can’t keep running off into the woods! We’re supposed to stay near the cabins!”
Rory spins around, sticking his tongue out at her. “You guys just don’t know how to have any fun!”
“Yeah?” Teenage Callum lets out a wicked grin—an expression I’ve never once seen on his face. “Is that right?”
He lunges forward, and Rory lets out a delighted, shrill shriek, tearing down the dirt trail in a full sprint. Callum takes off right after him, his laughter echoing through the trees.
Isla lets out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes toward the sky before jogging after the brothers. “I hate both of you!” she calls out, though a smile cracks through her annoyance.
And then, with the nauseating violent jerk of what feels like a fishing line pulling back, the woods vanish.
The heat evaporates. The smell of pine disappears. I’m back in the bathroom, my hands still clutched tightly to Callum’s chest.
Callum is staring down at me, his brow furrowed in deep lines, his broad hands gripping my arms so tight I can feel the pressure through my sleeves.
“Winifred,” he says, his voice laced with a sudden edge of panic. “What the hell just happened? I was talking to you and you just went blank. You were staring off like a zombie.”
I blink slowly, the bathroom light stinging my raw eyes again. My chest feels full with the phantom warmth of a summer afternoon from years ago. I shake my head gently. “I saw him.”
Callum’s jaw tightens. “Saw who?”
I hesitate, my fingers drifting down a fraction of an inch to touch the chain resting against his collarbone. “This…used to be Rory’s, didn’t it?”
Callum freezes, every muscle in his shoulders locking up. “Yeah, but—”
He cuts himself off. His eyes widen, the stormy indigo rings expanding as he searches my face, realization hitting him. The color slowly drains from his cheeks.
“Did you…did you see him?” he asks, his voice cracking on the last word.
I look up into those impossibly pretty eyes—so full of guarded pain, so heavy with years of missing the boy with the crunchy hair and the gap-toothed smile.
I give him a small, soft nod. “Yeah,” I whisper, a sad, tender little smile sitting on my lips despite the ache in my throat. “I did. He seemed…like a really happy kid, Callum.”
Callum lets out a ragged exhale that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for twenty years. He lifts a hand, running his thumb and forefinger heavily over his mustache, his gaze dropping to the bathroom tile between our feet. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are sad.
“What else?” he asks. “What did you see?”
I shake my head, keeping my hands resting lightly against his forearms. “Not much. Just…snippets. You guys were teenagers. You and Isla were chasing him through the woods somewhere. He had this ridiculous gelled hair and way too much energy.”
Callum doesn’t say anything. His jaw works, a muscle jumping along his cheek, and the silence in the small bathroom grows thick with memories I had no right barging into.
Before the quiet can swallow us whole, a sting flares back up behind my eyelids. I hiss, grabbing the dripping, milk-soaked rag off the counter and pressing it back over my face. “God. When does this stuff stop burning?”
Callum stares off toward the open door, his expression unreadable.
“You should probably go lie down,” he says, his tone suddenly flat, guarded.
“Keep the cloth over your eyes for half an hour. It’ll leech the rest of the oil out.
” He steps back, clearing his throat as his hands drop from my waist. “I’m gonna go outside. Get some air.”
I pull the rag down just enough to see his face through one squinting eye. “Callum, hey. I didn’t mean to upset you. Bringing him up—”
“No.” He cuts me off, his voice rougher than usual. “It wasn’t you, Fred. You’re fine.” He pauses at the bathroom threshold, looking back at me with a strained expression. “Are you good to get to the bed on your own?”
I nod softly. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”
I watch him walk out into the bedroom. A second later, the front door opens, swings shut, and clicks into the frame with just a little more force than necessary.
I stand up slowly, using the sink for balance, and navigate blindly back to the edge of the mattress.
I collapse onto the soft duvet, pulling my knees up and resting the cold towel over my face.
The room is quiet, save for the buzz of the old wall-unit heater and the faint sound of wind scraping branches against the windowpane.
My chest feels heavy. Really, really heavy.
I think about Callum standing out there in the parking lot in the freezing cold, trying to catch his breath. I think about what it must feel like to carry a ghost around for a decade, never getting to bury it, and never getting a real answer as to where they are.
If it were my brother…god, I can’t even complete the thought without my stomach dropping into a bottomless pit.
If Alden vanished tomorrow, if he just evaporated into thin air, it would destroy me.
I’d tear the earth apart with my bare hands trying to find him.
I would never stop looking. I’d go crazy in the quiet.
And I know, without a doubt, that Callum hasn’t stopped looking either. Every grumpy comment, every sharp look, every refusal to let his guard down—it’s all just armor he strapped on the day his world split open.
I lie there in the dark under the milk cloth, wondering what he was like before.
Did he laugh more? Did he smile with his whole face instead of just a reluctant twitch at the corner of his mouth?
Was he the kind of guy who made stupid jokes just to hear people laugh, or was he always this quiet, steady anchor holding everything and everyone together?
It makes me sad in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I want to know that version of him. I want to pull him back into the sunshine, even just for a minute, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how you heal a wound that’s been bleeding for years.
And it scares me how badly I want to try.