12. Callie Rae
Callie Rae
My eyes trace the glass panes of the back doors. I linger on the ornate handles as I sink my back into the arm of the sectional, burrowing my bare feet into the cushions.
I hike my knees to my chest, curling my palms around my ankles. I catch the hem of my sweatpants, and there’s a twitch in my fingers I don’t trust.
My grip tightens.
The lush grass sparkles under the daylight beyond the back doors. Tree branches sway with the gentle breeze, and the beauty twists my arm to submit to temptation.
I catch my iPhone laying at my toes on the sectional. It’s ten o’clock on a Friday morning during spring break, and instead of taking care of the house before Jesse’s home, I’m thinking of Brant.
I blow out a breath, curving my back over the armrest. My eyes greet the metal chandelier dangling from the pitched ceiling, only to close when my willpower erodes.
“You understand, Callie?”
We’re friends.
Friends.
Friends can catch up over a cup of coffee. Especially if they haven’t seen each other in ten years.
Before my thoughts swerve again, I pop up straight to snatch my phone. My thumbs tap the screen to open Brant’s information, and then I’m shooting a text.
Me
Hey! I’m assuming you get an hour lunch? If you’d like, I can join you. Let me know…
Once I hit send, I toss the phone so it lands on the opposite end of the sectional. My legs tangle in a crisscross position, my hands catching my face in my lap right after. “Ugh, what the hell are you doin’?” I mumble.
But it’s impossible to shake Brant from my mind. Those eyes. That smile. The facial hair. His touch.
All of it.
The last ten years without him have been the vilest withdrawal. When I lost him, I plunged from the summit of a mountain and hit the ocean floor. I was merely surviving in his wake. Gasping a breath of oxygen at the surface, never pulling myself out of the rough waves.
But I want to touch the land.
I need that rush again.
Just like he dealt it to me the first time.
A tremor rumbles underneath me, snapping my body up. I bite my lip, shuffling on my knees to snag my lit phone. When I park my butt back into the cushion, I comb my fingers through my hair as I read Brant’s message.
Brant
You assume correctly. Does 1:00 work for you?
My teeth sink deeper into my lip. The tension in my lower belly threatens to combust, and suddenly, I’m changing clothes.
Fuck.
* * *
Brant opens the glass door to Beanix Coffee, and I slip inside the café first.
My slip-on shoes kiss the polished concrete when I half-turn to him. “You come here often?”
He treads forward, hands in his jeans pockets as we approach the small order counter. “When I don’t bring my own coffee to work, it’s a great backup.”
I playfully shape my lips into a tight circle, popping a shoulder to my chin. “Oh. Fancy.”
We smile before Brant places his order with the barista. My eyes find the mounted menu screen, the company name lit in a neon pink sign above.
“The Strawberry Shortcake has those Good Humor crumbles on top,” Brant pipes up. “If that helps.”
My head rotates to him, brows inclining just as his lift suggestively. “Oh my god, that does,” I say, turning to the teenage girl behind the counter. “I’ll have a Strawberry Shortcake Latte. Hot, please.”
The barista’s ring-clad fingers tap the kiosk, and Brant hands over a twenty-dollar bill. “Yeah, honestly, those ice cream bars should be in a hall of fame or something,” he claims.
I smirk when he tucks the change into his back pocket. My head pokes around to view the length of the café, and my right hand instinctively shields my left.
I gulp tightly as my fingers toy with the square diamond. There’s no more than five people here, and whoever is here is focused on their laptop or phone screens. But the pit in my stomach lodges deeper anyway.
“Come on.”
Brant walks ahead, his earthy cologne mingling with the draft of roasted coffee beans. I follow his lead, catching the canopy of steel beams above the white walls. “Thank you,” I offer, slipping beside him.
We’re paused in front of the pick-up counter. I’m toying with a button on my half-fastened cardigan, and the barista rests our cups on the matte counter.
Brant grabs our order, leading us to a round table. “Thank you for keeping me company.”
“Ah.” I hang my crossbody over the rear of the chair, swiping my palms down the back of my mini skirt to sit. “Is work that terrible?”
He slides my latte to me, his corded forearm peeking from the rolled-up sleeve of his henley. “Nah, it’s not so bad,” he answers before sipping his cold brew.
I intentionally plant my left hand on my lap, lifting my latte in my right. Pink and tan crumbles decorate the foam layer at the rim, and bursts of strawberry sink into my mouth.
My eyes find Brant’s as I lean back in the chair. I pivot my head to the side, digging my left fist into my lap. Heavy weights stack on my chest with every silent second that floats by.
“Sunflowers,” I blurt.
“What?”
I huff a wobbly breath as I place my cup down, my focus parking on him. His forearms are crossed on the table, long legs spread in that masculine way. He’s asking me to clarify my statement, but there’s no confusion lining the contours of his face.
Just expectation in his eyes.
Want.
Like this is the door he was waiting for me to open ever since we reunited on my driveway.
The hair at the top of his head has grown a tad more texture. His mustache and beard pepper his olive skin flawlessly. He’s so gorgeous. More gorgeous than I ever anticipated him being. And all I can do is force myself not to care. Convince myself that he’s anything but stunningly handsome.
I can’t care.
“Those are my favorite flowers to plant,” I confess.
He bobs his Adam’s apple, our gazes locked. Flashes of bright yellow petals burst between us. Just as the sound of our innocent moans rings against our ears.
I drop my chin, tucking the loose strands of my half-up, half-down hairstyle behind my ears.
“I’m actually gonna plant them soon,” I add.
“The best time is typically around the beginning of May. If you have some time, maybe you could stop by to see them when they’re fully bloomed.
” My head peers up, landing on his secure stare.
“I’m not an expert gardener or anything, but I’ve come a long way since I first started. ”
My stare runs over him, heart thrusting beneath my chest. But a muted buzz hums from the tabletop, and my eyes plummet to the source.
It’s his phone.
Julia.
His fingers cover the evidence, his thumb clicking the screen off. “Cal—”
The mere mention of my name pops my attention to the adjacent wall.
“I told you I wasn’t in a committed relationship, and that was the truth. It still is,” he defends.
I scoff, my fingers brushing a stray piece of hair from my face. “I’m rambling on and on about stupid sunflowers, and you just sit there and let me do it. It’s the worst kind of rude.”
His hands land on his chest as he leans in. “I’m rude for listening to you speak?” he asks lowly.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
He chucks a laugh, pivoting his head to the side.
My gaze pinches, and now I’m the one staring at him. “Does she know about me? Does she know you’re here with me right now? Huh?”
He wags his head at me, a firm gleam in his hazel eyes. “No.”
“W-why not? Why didn’t you tell her?” I ask, panic glazing my throat. “I can accept the fact that I’m a little dishonest with Jesse, but I won’t accept that from you.” My teeth grit. “Not you.”
“She knows where I stand with her.”
I purse my lips as I drop my eyes. Both my palms cradle my latte, and I scrape up enough courage to continue. “If you were ever going to take a request from me, could you please erase sunflowers from your mind? I’m mortified enough as it is.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he refutes. “A rose? Yes. Lilacs? Sure. But sunflowers?” I lift my head to meet his softened stare. “There’s no other flower like it.”
My eyes well up as I prepare the words I’ve always dreamed of telling him.
I’ve been intimate with a few guys since Brant. In college. After college. Jesse. They came with experience, and the intimacy was satisfying enough, but they never came with sunflowers.
They never came with sunflowers.
“Thank you for giving me a favorite flower.”
His rugged jaw pulses. Our gazes glue under the white lights before he dips his attention between us.
Then he seizes my hand in his to raise our cupped palms. “I got you, Dove.”
My arms snake around the back of his neck as I lift onto the toes of my sneakers. “Thank you, Dove,” I mumble into the nylon of his coat.
And I found someone, out of the entire universe, to defend me with his entire soul.
His hands plant at my lower back. My chest instantly pastes to his steel torso, and I decide that it’s possibly my favorite spot to be. “I got you, Dove,” he murmurs, placing a kiss on the top of my beanie. “Always.”
My heart flutters. Rapidly beating as those words pump every deadened nerve to life inside of me.
He got it right.
For me.
For us.
I’m convinced there aren’t many people in this world who can say their first time was wonderful. We dream about the butterflies and stars, but sometimes, we only get a fraction of that vision. As for me? I got the whole picture.
Because of him.
Dove.
His upper lip flexes, and a smile slowly blossoms from my lips. My chest hums with glee, my forehead planting on top of our laced knuckles. Tears prick the crooks of my eyes, only for his free palm to cradle the back of my head.
“Always,” he murmurs.
My hand lands on top of his at my head. I stroke it a few times before peeling away, a tiny sniffle commencing shortly after.
We could make a big deal of the memory. We could linger on the elephant in the room. Instead, we’re drawing sips of our drinks as we quietly cherish this instance in time.
There’re friendly glances and lip twitches, but the silence speaks the loudest.
Just like it once did for us.
With Brant and I, we never had to speak to understand each other. I thought we might’ve lost it, but as it turns out, that superpower never abandoned us.
If anything, it followed us.