38. Brant
Brant
After a six-hour drive on a Sunday, Callie and I finally made it back to my house.
When I first mentioned my trip to Willowhart, I never expected her to come along. But she did. Not only that, she regained the strength she thought she lost.
Our trip was perfection personified.
Flawless in every facet of the term.
I found her again. The girl my heart yearned for every single day when I walked out of that trailer. I’d wake up, march down the wooden steps just praying those sage-green eyes would drown me deeper than they did the day before.
I thought when the time came to take Callie back there, I’d have to suffocate her with my shield. But she didn’t need my armor.
She soars now. Just like the woman I always dreamed of her becoming. I’d lay my life down for her, that’s not a question. But I want to live with her more. I want to witness every grin, every chuckle, every ounce of light that casts along the contours of that face I’m disgustingly obsessed with.
I lean my back against the headboard. Callie’s crouched over her paisley duffle bag in the corner. She’s sifting through her belongings in her oversized t-shirt and cotton shorts, and I inhale.
A swirl of nerves twists inside my chest when I wonder how much longer she’s going to stay with me.
Is it forever?
On our ride back, I caught her abruptly flipping her phone down on her lap. Her silence was defeating, leaving me to believe that Jesse’s trying to wedge himself back into her life.
I’m aware she still needs to pack up the rest of her things from his house, but I’ve been too much of a pussy to inquire about it. My heart split open the first time she left. If I had to watch her walk away again, my heart would cease to exist.
I lay my free hand on my bare abs when Callie stands to turn around. I notice she has her arms tucked behind her back, and my brows pinch. “Uh oh,” I tease.
“I want to show you something,” she says softly. Her eyes are solemn as her face teases a hint of a smile.
My playfulness disintegrates, my eyes lingering on hers. Then I’m nodding. “Okay.”
Her long waves bounce along her arms as she strolls to the foot of the bed. The mattress dips when she props one knee up, and I straighten my posture.
She scoots up to me when I crisscross my legs, placing a book on my lap.
The hefty weight dips through my sweatpants. The textured leather of the hardcover presses into my legs, and Callie shuffles to sit at my side.
My attention focuses as my hands trace the front cover.
Stories for Dove.
That’s the title.
The pads of my fingers brush over the lamination of the center label. The title is written in Callie’s handwriting and traced with a yellow-colored pencil.
Then my digits drag to the sketched sunflower and dove.
“Listen to me, Dove.” He takes my hand in his, flipping my palm up.
I peer up at him, and once our eyes connect under the shimmering sun, he tightens his grip.
“I want you to go and write so many stories on the other side. Stories that will make anyone who reads them smile, laugh, and maybe even dance.”
Tears commence once again, but Brant’s thumb brushes each bead away. “Your crying stops today, Dove. It’s time for you to feel what real happiness is.”
“You too, Dove,” I whisper. “You too.”
“Yeah, both of us,” he breathes through quaking lips. “But when I get to the other side, I’m never gonna forget you. I’m never gonna forget all of this and the life we shared together in this trailer park. Under those pine trees. It’s always going to be you and me.”
I slightly lift my knees to plant my elbows on. I draw in a stumbling breath, my bottom lip rattling as my eyes bloom with tears.
“Write me a million stories, Dove. I’ll be waiting to read them,” he whispers. “Even when you think I’m not, I’ll be looking for you. Flying toward you. I’ll find you.”
Her palm rests on my naked shoulder. Her satin flesh dissolves into me as her lips brush the shell of my ear. “I didn’t write you sad stories,” she teases.
The corner of my mouth flexes, but I swipe a hand down my face to collect myself. I huff a sharp breath through my nose, flicking my attention to her kind smile.
She jerks her chin, and I look at the book. My palm rests at the back of her head to stroke her soft tendrils, and my other hand flips the book open.
“My First Day.”
I read her handwriting above the four-by-six photo. My stare travels to the glossy picture, and she’s in the center of her dorm room. Popping a hip as she rests both hands at her waist.
Oh, my fucking heart.
My lungs tingle with glee, happiness flooding every hollow hole in my soul. Those pockets that were never filled in her absence.
I lock my gaze on the girl I fell head over heels and flat on my face in love with. She has shoulder-length waves, a slimmer frame in her simple jeans and t-shirt, and her smile is shy.
My lip shakes as I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers.
Callie’s chin rests on my shoulder, her finger now tapping the thick page of the scrapbook. “My roommate, Kelly, took the photo. That’s her.”
“Me and My Roommate.”
I repeat the title above the bottom picture. Which is of her and Kelly throwing peace signs with puckered lips.
My throat chucks a laugh, and Callie’s giggle rumbles against my arm.
I flip to the next page, and each one has two photos glued diagonally—a photo at the top, a photo at the bottom.
There’s a border of sunflowers on some pages.
A frame of doves on a handful of others.
Each telling me a story from Callie’s last ten years.
My tears gradually dissipate, the crooks of my mouth lifting a millimeter more with every tale she shows me.
Literally, shows me.
I see the ski trip and the music festival she talked about that night at The Wild Corral.
Holidays with her aunt and half cousins.
I scurry my gaze over each page, wanting to memorize every single detail so her stories can live inside me.
Pump them through my veins until I’m forced to experience those times with her.
When I turn the page, the next cream-colored paper is blank. Then I flip again, only to be greeted with another vacant paper.
I realize we’re at the end.
I inhale an unsteady breath, beginning to shut the scrapbook when Callie’s hand lays over mine. “Keep going,” she says.
My pulse races. I fling my gaze to hers before returning my focus to the scrapbook. Then I resume surfing through to the end.
“I never knew how long it would be, so I just reserved the very last page.”
Her voice massages my ear, the hum of it caressing me as I turn the last couple sheets.
Until I reach the final one.
A breath huffs from my lungs, words jumbled at the base of my throat. My fingers trace the empty center of the page, and all oxygen floods my chest at once.
Two Doves Soaring …
I read the header before the footer, gulping as my vision blurs with the onset of tears.
… On The Other Side.
I exhale, the pads of my fingers tracing the simple drawing in the bottom left corner. Two doves, flying next to each other in synchronized harmony. Their wingspan completely fanned out.
“We’ll have to take a picture soon,” she murmurs, her finger pointing to the vacant space. “We can put it right there.”
I lick my lips, my hand wrapping around hers before I shut the album. I toss the scrapbook to the foot of the bed, my heart driving my body to seize her face in my palms.