7. Callie Rae
Callie Rae
Warm wood meets polished concrete in the sleek, industrial space. Rows of gleaming taps line the rear of the bar, offering an extensive selection of craft beers.
I turn my head to Brant as we walk. “What do you think?” I ask, my palms meeting at my stomach.
The ambient lighting casts over his handsome face. It highlights the rugged contours as he pokes his attention around. “I think if the beer is good, I’ll have no problem returning.”
I briefly flip my hands out. “Once I realized you were an architect, I remembered my co-workers and I coming here a couple times. Figured it was a winner for your eye.”
“What do you do? I don’t know what you do,” he asks once we reach the bar.
My palm lays on the matte finish of the counter, and I tip my chin up to him. “I work in a middle school. I’m a child psychologist.”
Just as Brant shines his pearly whites, the bartender slips in front of us. I ask for the pale ale, and Brant orders the IPA before plucking a credit card from his wallet.
“I’ll buy the next round, but you’re on your own after that,” I say through a tentative smile. “Two drinks are my limit. Always.”
The bartender returns, placing our full snifter glasses in front of us.
While his credit card is swiped, Brant lifts the drinks and turns to hand me mine.
“My manners aren’t really up for debate,” he answers casually.
Then he’s raising his beer between us, our eyes locked in a dark sea of hideous truths. “Always,” he echoes.
His voice is woven with the same promise.
To me.
To himself.
Always.
We clink our glasses before tasting the drinks. The refreshing notes of citrus drop into my mouth, and I lick the sweet remnants after.
“I’ll leave the tab open in case you want another. Come on.” Brant tilts his head toward the main floor, and I follow him until we sit at a bar-height table.
I place my beer on the wooden top, hanging my crossbody strap over the back of the chair. Brant shrugs his bomber jacket off, and I sink into my seat.
My blood runs hot when the taut ridges of his arms bleed through the fabric of his long-sleeve. His broad shoulders maneuver as he situates himself to take another sip of beer. Then I’m peeling my denim jacket off.
“How long have you been in New York?” I ask. My eyes inadvertently trace the thin chain disappearing behind the collar of his shirt.
“Just shy of a year.”
I smirk at him, freeing my hands from my denim sleeves. “I hope the next set of answers gets longer.”
His forearms lay down so he can interlock his fingers.
“After Yorkstone, I settled at a firm in Rhode Island. But when I milked that job for all it was worth, I looked elsewhere.” He softly inhales, his gaze veering to the side before returning to me.
“My roommate from college happened to be renting out his uncle’s place on Long Island.
We touched base, and once I found a promising job here, we picked up where we left off. The rest is history.”
I gulp past the boulder in my throat, envy seeping through my skin. It occurs to me that he lived a whole other life those four years in college. Just like me.
I didn’t witness a crumb of it.
There’s not a single memory for us to share.
Just stories.
“How was college?” I add faintly, needing to know.
He wraps a palm around his glass of beer, mindlessly roaming his gaze over it.
A skewed grin flashes from him before he speaks.
“College was everything I needed it to be,” he finally says.
“It was great. It was fun. It kept me busy.” He flicks his eyes to mine.
His Adam’s apple rolls as his hazel irises glint with a relief. “It was worth it.”
I beam inside.
And every ounce of that bliss is authentic.
My arms cross over my chest, my palms cupping my arms as I lean over the table. If there’s anyone in this world who deserves a happy ending like that, it’s Brant.
Just as he’s granted that solace, so am I.
For so long, I’ve replayed that final screaming match under those loblolly pine trees.
How my words weren’t the ones I wanted to say, but the ones I knew I had to.
And if I could travel in reverse, I know I’d make that same decision every single time.
Knowing I’d be staring at him like this right now.
He looks like the boy I once knew.
The boy with big wishes and an even bigger heart. Only now, he’s the boy that chased and conquered those dreams. I always wondered what he’d look like when he finally got here, but my imagination was flawed.
He’s invincible.
Damn.
“Yeah,” I simply say.
I knead the skin of my arms when his eyes steer to my left hand.
“How long have you been living in Hampton Bays?” he asks.
The band of my ring digs into my flesh, and I silently will it to absorb into my body. “Several months,” I answer. “Before then, I was living by myself in an apartment of a mother-daughter home in Mount Sinai.”
“How long have you been with Jesse?”
“A year.” My head bobs, and that familiar guilt suffocates me. I drop my attention to my beer on the table, muttering anxiously. “We got engaged a couple months ago. Kind of a whirlwind, I suppose.”
I lift my drink to draw a sip of liquid courage. My eyes cautiously elevate to meet Brant’s. There’s a fat pit nestled in my stomach, and I can’t quite digest it. I’m unsure of how I’m expected to act.
If I act excited about my relationship, would it be rude? But if I act indifferent about it, wouldn’t that be strange?
“How did you two meet?” he asks.
My free thumb instantly hikes over my shoulder. “A colleague of mine introduced me to him. She used to live in the city.”
I drop my eyes to the table to place my drink down. I tuck some hair behind my ear after, waiting for Brant to say something. Anything.
But words never leave him.
My palms fall into my lap, my fingers fiddling with each other against my pencil skirt. The pit in my belly expands, inflating with discomfort across the dreadful silence.
I love Jesse.
I’m marrying him.
I should talk about him.
“Jesse lived in Manhattan up until we moved in together in Hampton Bays.” Indifference eventually wins when I speak. I offer Brant a tiny smile, but my chest screws tighter as distress washes over me in fiercer waves.
Change the topic.
“How about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
My stare finds his forearms tangled over the table. It’s overwhelming to look into his eyes, but I notice him shaking his head in my periphery. “I’m not in a committed relationship, if that’s what you mean.”
I quickly pop my brows, finding the courage to meet his gaze again. “But you are seeing someone?”
“Sure, you could say that,” he says, his coolness knocking mine to shame. “But it’s never anything worth watering.”
I hesitate a quick beat. “Why is that?”
“If I’m not getting what I want from her, I move on.”
My throat clogs as I roam my eyes over his frame. There’re burning tears that line the lids of my eyes, but it’s not out of jealously or judgment.
It’s out of mourning.
I’m mourning his absence the last ten years. It occurs to me that I don’t know this man sitting across from me.
As it turns out, there are women who know this man better.
Better than me?
Me?
“How’s your mom?” I sigh out the question, needing the conversation to take a rapid turn.
Brant’s interlocked fingers rest on the table. A tiny exhale supplements the gesture, and I brace for the blow. “Mom, she’s …” He drags out the last word, subtly wagging his head. “She’s not doing too great. She hasn’t been for the last couple years.”
His words whip a belt to my gut. My eyes find the stiffness in his hazel stare, and I force myself to cling to it. As devastating as it is to look him in the eyes right now, I owe him that much.
I owe his mother that much.
“When was the last time you’ve seen her?” I ask.
“I try to visit her once a month,” he answers carefully. “It’s tough with my work schedule, so there’re a couple months that go by before I’m back in Willowhart.”
His voice tapers, sorrow clawing its way out of the crate he’s trapped it in.
I know it.
“But I do try.” He’s tucking his lips as his eyes sink to the tabletop. Almost shamefully. “I swear I do.”
His last words unlatch a door on my heart, and my words slip out effortlessly.
Seamlessly.
Like a cherished pastime.
My palm lays over his cradled hands, my fingers instinctively hugging them. He’s large and so much rougher than I remember. So physically different in every way.
But he doesn’t flinch a centimeter from the contact.
“You can take me with you next time you go. I want you to know that,” I say.
His eyes dodge from mine when he slowly peels from my touch. He inhales as he straightens in his chair, tossing a flippant response. “For what? This isn’t exactly shocking information, Callie. It’s just karma from her shitty decisions in life. Let it go.”
I sit up, my gaze lurking about as I curl my hands around my seat. “Look, I know you’re just pissed at my offer, so I’ll wait until you’re cooled down to ask you.”
“That’s my answer,” he counters. “You don’t need to wait for me to cool down.”
My chin tips up, eyes locked and loaded on his to call him out. “You were pissed at my comment.”
He gently shakes his head, answering softly. “It doesn’t rub me the right way.”
I lightly scoff, wagging my head. My tongue prods the inside of my cheek when I avert my attention, and my eyes track the string of Edison bulbs and wood walls.
I’m masking the agony of the knife that penetrates my soul. “I guess I don’t really know how to respond to that,” I tell him.
“I don’t want you to lie to me,” he says. “Lie to my face, nonetheless.”
My gaze pinches, my focus returning to him. “What’re you talking about? I’m not lying.”