30. Callie Rae
Callie Rae
My chest suffocates when Brant parks the Tacoma. We’re on the side of his mom’s house, and the sun is about to set.
Pastel hues spread across the teal sky above the trailer park. I fidget with my fingers in my lap just as Brant places his palm in the crook of my neck. He massages tenderly, but I’m focused on the pink flower bed bolted to the house across from us.
My throat rolls, body buckling against the leather seat.
“It’s a really nice family that lives there,” Brant offers. “Leah and Caleb, with their son and daughter. I think they’re about six and four years old.”
“You’ve met them?”
My stare is still cemented to the tiny pink petals in the black plastic.
“A few times,” he says softly. “I started visiting Momma here and there while in college. When I noticed they moved here, I decided to introduce myself. Partly because I knew they’d see me routinely.”
“And the other part?” I ask, already knowing his answer.
“You.”
My head turns to him, and I catch his tranquil gaze. With the fading daylight, his eyes are more copper than hazel now.
His thumb gently kneads my flesh when he continues. “I guess I just wanted to know there was such a thing as redemption in this life. That through all the terrible shit, if there is one good thing that can replace a part of it, maybe that wound doesn’t have to run so deep.”
Tears bud in my eyes, pricking my vision until it muddles. I shake my head, hiking my shoulders as I say, “There were never any flower beds around the house. No flowers at all.”
His head slightly tilts, his prickly jaw twitching when he whispers, “Yeah, I remember.”
I gulp thickly, returning my attention to the windshield. “It looks pretty,” I say lowly. “I like it.”
Door hinges and distant voices holler around the shelter of the truck.
“I’m sure it’s not too late. I could introduce you,” Brant suggests.
My head whips to him, my eyes gaping. “No,” I breathe, brows curving in uncertainty. “I-I wouldn’t know what to say.”
He pops a shoulder. “Okay,” he backpedals, compassion cuddling his tone. “We have all weekend if you change your mind. It doesn’t have to be tonight.”
I part my lips, ready to refute his proposal. But the words never escape me.
Instead, my attention drags to the long home in question. My eyes scan the flat shape. From the white siding to the black roof. Then I ingest a long breath.
Brant shifts into me, and his warm lips press to my temple. “You’re okay. I got you, Dove.” he whispers. “Always.”
I nod, the jagged inhale smoothing out. A single tear sneaks out, but I catch the droplet on my finger.
I’m sniffling up the pending ones before reaching for the door handle. “Let’s go,” I sigh. “I want to see your mom.”
We exit the truck, and Brant’s snaking an arm around me. We circle the side of his mom’s house, my hand planting on the center of his chest. It mildly curls into the cotton fabric of his hoodie, and I glance at my childhood home.
A pale-yellow lighting seeps through the blinds between the black shutters. My heartbeat races. Soars, even. Just waiting for a scream or cry to ring through that flimsy siding.
But Brant’s lips deliver a kiss to the top of my head.
My eyes pinch shut, his gesture knocking me back to reality. I pry my gaze open, swerving my attention forward before Brant releases me to grab my hand.
We march up the wooden steps, the dull thuds digging up a series of buried memories. I eject a long breath, but my head is like a magnet to the house behind us.
I peek over my shoulder, the earthy scent of the pine trees coiling around my veins. Until I’m tugged deeper into the storm of my past.
My eyes rest on that bland front door I’ve shot out of too many times. Daddy’s hollering echoes around me, numbing the feel of Brant’s palm cradling mine.
Then my gaze lifts to the slender silhouettes of the loblolly pine trees in the distance. And just as I expect the volume of Daddy’s voice to escalate, it simmers.
Those goddamn pine trees.
I spin my head around when the creaky door hinges squeal. The front door of Brant’s childhood home opens, revealing his mom on the other side.
My mouth molds into a tender smile. Mrs. Beckett’s blue irises sparkle against the mounted porch light, and her lips part in wonder. “Callie Rae, oh my goodness,” she breathes.
Her fingers rest on her lips, her stare roaming my face meticulously.
“Hi, Mrs. Beckett,” I say, my smile stretching. “How are you?”
“Oh, come in, come in,” she sings while motioning.
Brant unlatches his grip, placing his hand at my lower back. I step inside first, and his mom’s arms are already welcoming me into a hug.
“Ah, Callie, you’re just as gorgeous as I remember,” she coos. Her palms swipe up and down my back over my cardigan.
“It’s so great to see you. How are you?” I pull back from her, my hands lingering in hers as she shrugs.
“I’m doin’ alright,” she offers softly, her crow’s feet boldening with her smirk. “Gettin’ by.”
Her eyes gleam with a sadness above her smile. But her attention pops over my shoulder when the front door clicks shut.
Brant inserts himself next to us, leaning in just as his mom releases my palms. “Oh, thanks for coming,” she says, winding her arms around him. “It’s great to see you, honey.”
He pulls her into his embrace, pecking a kiss to her cheek. “You look good, Mom.”
A chuckle escapes her when she sweeps a hand through her shoulder-length hair.
Abundant silver strands emerge between her dirty blonde locks, the back of her hand wrinkling as she fists a section.
“Yeah, let’s just hope my tips start increasing at the diner.
I could really use the money considering I’m cutting back hours. ”
“You can just rely on your natural charm,” Brant replies casually. Then he walks left to enter the kitchen.
She drops her hand at her side to face me, a subdued smile creeping across her mouth. “He’s gonna be a minute. He’s searching for a secret stash.” She’s gesturing a hand in Brant’s direction.
My eyes pop to the left when a couple cabinets open and close. “O-oh.”
I land my attention on Mrs. Beckett as she adds, “He’ll be in the kitchen, then the other side of the house in a minute.
It’s the same routine every time he comes.
” She timidly laughs as her head rotates, eyes scanning Brant’s movements.
Then her hands slip into the back pockets of her jeans.
“He’s caught me a few times, so I guess I can’t really blame him. ”
Mrs. Beckett’s always been slim, but it looks like she’s shed a little more weight since I last saw her. My stare lingers on her skin. I’m not sure if it’s the dim lighting the floor lamp casts, but her flesh is tainted slightly yellow.
My throat bobs before speaking. “Mrs. Beckett, respectfully,” I begin gently, “I really hope you aren’t drinking.”
She pivots her attention to me, her lips pursing as she shakes her head.
“No, honey.” Her shoulders rise uncomfortably.
“Sometimes, I break. But ever since Brant’s been out of college, he forced me to make some changes when he visited more consistently.
I don’t drink anywhere close to what you remember. Haven’t in years.”
My eyes dart up when Brant strolls across the living room carpet to the slim corridor.
Just like she said he would.
My heart lunges for him. Not just to grant him serenity from all the mayhem I missed in our time apart, but to reside in him. Because after all the paths and turns I traveled to escape this trailer park, there’s no place like him.
He’s warmth.
Light. Color. Shelter.
The perfect home.
I tangle my fingers in front of my lower belly, a smile tugging on my mouth. “I’m so proud of you, Mrs. Beckett.”
Brant’s mom flashes an appreciative grin, and then she’s turning toward the couch. “If you’re proud of that, you should look at this blanket I crocheted.”
I follow behind her, my delight spreading when she plucks the throw blanket off the back of the sofa. My lips part as she spins to me, my fingers stroking the ivory shell patterns across the beige yarn. “You made this?”
“I gotta do something to curb my appetite for alcohol,” she jokes.
My lips seal, reluctant to laugh.
But her confession provides me solace. Knowing that she’s healing. Knowing that some weight can be lifted from Brant’s shoulders.
“This is wonderful. I love it.”
“Yeah,” she sighs, traveling the blanket back to its original location.
When she drapes it over the rear of the couch, my palms greet my lower back. I peek left, and an assortment of pill bottles is parked on the laminate kitchen counter.
My stomach tenses hastily. There must be at least ten amber, cylindrical containers. I wonder if Brant’s mom takes all of those in a single day. I know cirrhosis requires a multitude of medications, but I’m not sure how often the doses are.
“It’s almost eight o’clock. What did you want to do for dinner, Ma?”
Our heads turn to Brant as he emerges from the narrow hallway. He’s lifting his backward snapback to brush a hand through his hair.
Mrs. Beckett raises her hands. “I don’t know,” she answers, looking my way. “Pizza? Greek?”
I nod, flicking my gaze to Brant as he waits for my approval. “Works for me. I’m fine with either.”