Chapter 23
Callum
I drove to my parents’ house with both hands tight on the wheel, not because I was nervous about the road but because I didn’t trust what would happen if I loosened my grip. There was a knot of tension sitting low in my chest, dense and unmoving.
I hadn’t been invited, but I couldn’t stay away from her for any longer. There had been no message from Ginny, no sign that she wanted to see me, no indication that my presence would add anything to her day.
The bag sat on the passenger seat, small and unassuming, the kind of thing that wouldn’t draw attention even if someone noticed it.
I’d been deliberate about that. Nothing extravagant, nothing that could be mistaken for a gesture meant to impress or overwhelm.
Everything inside it had been chosen for one purpose only: to soothe, to soften edges, to make things easier in quiet ways.
Even so, I was aware that the bag itself might be more than she wanted from me, and that awareness stayed with me as I pulled into the driveway.
The house looked the same as it always had, neat and familiar. I sat in the car for a moment before getting out, breathing once, then again.
Inside, the sound of the television reached me before anything else. Loud voices, music swelling and receding, something unmistakably animated. I recognized it immediately, and the knowledge settled in my chest with a strange mix of fondness and restraint. Shrek. Of course it was.
I stepped farther into the house, careful with my movements, and saw her in the living room.
Ginny was curled into one end of the couch, bundled in a blanket with her legs tucked in and her shoulders slightly hunched in a way that suggested lingering fatigue more than discomfort.
The television cast a soft glow across her face, green and gold and blue shifting with every scene change, and for a moment I just stood there, taking her in without announcing myself.
She looked tired, deeply so, but not fragile in the way I’d been bracing myself for.
There was color in her face, a steadiness to her breathing, a sense that she was holding herself together even if it took effort.
Relief washed through me first, quick and sharp, followed immediately by an ache that had nowhere to go.
Seeing her like this made everything feel closer and farther away at the same time.
She noticed me a second later, her eyes flicking toward the hallway and landing on me without surprise. There was no startle, no visible reaction beyond acknowledgment. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She didn’t turn away pointedly or gesture for me to leave.
She just looked at me, then looked back at the screen.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Hey,” she replied, equally quiet, her attention already back on the movie.
That was it. No warmth, no edge, just quiet tolerance, and somehow that landed heavier than anger would have. I stayed where I was, a few steps into the room, acutely aware of how easily I could misstep simply by assuming I was welcome to move closer.
I didn’t sit down. I didn’t ask to join her. I didn’t comment on the movie or try to bridge the space with small talk. I let the silence exist, letting the television fill it instead, and waited for the right moment to say the one thing I knew I needed to say.
“I wanted to tell you something,” I said after a beat, my gaze fixed somewhere neutral, not on her face, not on the screen. “And then I’ll give you space.”
She glanced over again, this time more directly, her expression unreadable. “Okay.”
“The situation with Ashley,” I said, keeping my tone plain and even. “It’s over. She won’t contact you again. She won’t be an issue.”
She studied me for a moment longer, her eyes sharp but tired, then looked back at the television. “Whatever.”
The word hit harder than I expected, not because it was cruel, but because it wasn’t. There was no anger in it, no accusation, no demand for reassurance. Just dismissal, flat and exhausted, the response of someone who didn’t have the energy to engage with promises anymore.
“I heard from my mom that she reached out to you. I’m sorry that she bothered you. Do you want to talk about what she said?”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Not really. Ashley is like a snake, poisoning everything she can. She said you’re feeling trapped, that I’m a burden, and that the two of you have been kissing.
It hurt, but she seems like a compulsive liar.
I have better things to do with my time, like watching this movie. Which you’re interrupting.”
“I’m sorry again, Ginny. You’re right, she was lying.”
After a few moments of silence between us, she spoke again.
“I read your letter.” She said quietly.
“I’m glad. I hope it clarified some things for you. I’m sorry for how I have acted, how I have changed.”
She nodded again, but didn’t say anything more.
I shifted my weight, aware again of the invisible boundary she’d drawn around herself, and I respected it.
I didn’t linger near the couch or try to insert myself into her space.
I stayed standing, off to the side, present without pressing, and let the movie continue to fill the room with noise and color.
Every instinct I had wanted to close the distance, to prove something, to be seen trying. But instinct was what had failed her before, and I wasn’t trusting it now.
I remained where I was, quiet and contained, letting her have the center of the room, letting her choose if and when my presence meant anything at all.
For now, it was enough simply to be there, to be steady, to understand that tolerance was not forgiveness and safety was not trust, and that neither of those things could be rushed.
With Shrek still blaring, I excused myself without explanation, a quiet nod toward Ginny and nothing more, and stepped out of the living room. The movie continued behind me, voices and music swelling and dipping, and I was oddly grateful for the cover of noise as I moved toward the kitchen.
My parents were there, my mother at the counter with a mug cooling between her hands, my father flipping through the mail with the same deliberate focus he applied to everything.
“I was thinking,” I said, keeping my voice low, practical, “about the guest room.”
My mother’s brow creased slightly, not with concern but with attention. “What about it?”
“I want to make it… calmer and more comfortable for her,” I said, searching for the right words.
There was a pause, brief and measured. My father set the mail down, straightening the stack with a tap against the counter.
“That room could use some work,” he said, neutral as ever.
My mother nodded once. “We can help.”
Without waiting, my dad and I started to move.
My father disappeared into the garage and came back with his toolbox, already moving with purpose.
“Now, give me your plan. Otherwise, I am doing everything and taking all the credit, while you continue to be a useless husband.” He said as we moved towards the guestroom.
I couldn’t stop the huff from escaping my mouth, but I filled him in on my plans anyways.
After explaining my ideas and getting the materials from my car, he assessed the wall with a brief, practiced glance and started measuring, efficient and quiet, the way he always was when his hands were busy.
The sound of the drill came later as he worked to install the two shelves.
My mother moved through the room with a different kind of focus, unplugging the overhead lamp and replacing it with softer, adjustable lighting I had picked out, the kind that warmed the corners instead of bleaching them.
She changed out the bulbs, tested the dimmer, stepped back, and adjusted again.
I unpacked one of the bags I’d brought with me, placing each item carefully as I went.
The blanket came first, soft and dense without being heavy, the kind that settled around you instead of pressing down. I spread it slowly, smoothing the edges.
Next came the candle in her favourite scent, which found its home on the dresser. I nudged it slightly to the left, imagining the low, grounding sound it would make when burned, the subtle and satisfying crackle.
Her favourite lotion followed, placed within easy reach rather than tucked away.
The game was last. Animal Crossing, still sealed. I set it on the shelf my father had just finished installing, its bright cover a quiet promise of distraction without pressure, of time passing gently instead of being endured.
Then, I started filling the shelf with a couple small items, hopefully that they would make Ginny feel even more at-ease in the room.
Down the hall, the movie continued to play.
The sound drifted toward us in bursts, muffled but unmistakable, and every now and then I caught a faint echo of Ginny’s laughter layered into it.
My mother adjusted the lamp one last time, then stepped back beside me. “That should do it,” she said.
My father wiped his hands on a rag and nodded once, stepping aside so I could see the room as a whole.
It looked different, but not transformed in any dramatic way. Softer. Warmer. Less stark. The kind of place where your shoulders might drop without you realizing why.
Neither of them said anything else. There was no praise, no comment on how thoughtful it was, no reassurance that this mattered. They simply stood there with me for a moment, three people sharing the quiet result of shared effort.
My father left first, already moving on to the next task that needed doing somewhere else in the house. My mother lingered a second longer, her hand brushing lightly against my arm before she followed him out.
I remained in the doorway.
Something about the room felt closed to me in a way that wasn’t hostile but was definitive. This space wasn’t mine to occupy, even in imagination. It belonged to Ginny, and to the version of her that needed quiet and control and rest without explanation.
When I turned back toward the living room, the movie was nearing its end.
Ginny was still curled into the couch, eyes on the screen, expression relaxed in a way that hadn’t been there earlier.
I took a seat across the room, far enough away to keep the boundary intact, close enough to remain present.
I didn’t tell her what we’d done.
I didn’t gesture down the hall or hint at anything waiting for her. I let the moment exist as it was, unresolved and fragile, trusting that if the sanctuary mattered, it would matter on her terms, in her time.
Sanctuary, I was learning, wasn’t something you announced. It was something you built quietly and then stepped back from, waiting to see if it would be accepted.