Chapter 33
Callum brought it up in the most offhand way possible, which was how I knew he had thought about it carefully.
We were in the living room, both of us pretending to focus on separate things, him scrolling through something on his phone, me half-watching a show I had already seen and barely registering.
The house had settled into that familiar quiet that came after dinner, not tense, not heavy, just occupied by two people sharing space without needing to fill it.
“What would you think,” he said, not looking up yet, “about having some people over here.”
I glanced at him. “People,” I repeated. “That sounds ominous.”
He huffed out a small laugh. “Not like that. I was thinking more… a girls’ night. For you.”
That caught my attention properly. I muted the TV and turned toward him, studying his expression for signs of obligation or expectation, the way I had learned to do over the past year.
There were none. He looked calm, thoughtful, like this was an idea he was offering, not a solution he was imposing.
“You want to host a girls’ night,” I said slowly.
“I want to host it,” he confirmed. “You would just show up and enjoy it. I’d be organizing it and providing the supplies.”
Something in my chest shifted at that, a subtle warmth I hadn’t quite learned how to name yet.
“You wouldn’t mind?” I asked, because the question mattered more than it should have.
He shrugged, easy and sincere. “I would mind if you felt stressed about it. Otherwise, no. I think it might be nice.”
Nice was an understatement, and we both knew it.
I had not had people over like that in a long time, not without anxiety riding shotgun, not without the sense that I would need to manage everything from the seating to the energy to my own body.
The idea of my friends in this house, laughing and sprawled and comfortable, felt distant enough to be surprising.
“I wouldn’t have to organize anything,” I said, clarifying.
“You would not be allowed to,” he replied, finally looking at me. “I would take care of food, drinks, movies, logistics, all of it. Your only responsibility would be existing.”
I snorted. “I’m very good at existing.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said dryly, and the fondness in his voice was quiet but unmistakable.
I hesitated for only a moment, mostly out of habit. “Okay,” I said. “That actually sounds… really nice.”
His shoulders eased, just a fraction, like he had been braced for resistance that never came. “Friday work for you?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling despite myself. “Friday works.”
He nodded once, satisfied, and went back to his phone, already making plans I had no intention of interfering with.
By the time Friday arrived, I was oscillating between excitement and nerves, which was apparently my new default state.
Callum had been a quiet blur of activity all afternoon, moving through the house with purpose but without fuss. I caught glimpses of grocery bags appearing and disappearing, surfaces being wiped, pillows being rearranged with an attention to detail I pretended not to notice.
“You know I don’t care if things are perfect,” I told him at one point, when he was adjusting the placement of a throw blanket for the third time.
“I know,” he said easily. “This is for me.”
I laughed, and let him have it.
The first knock came right on time, which was unmistakably Thalia. She always had the habit of banging on the door much harder than what was necessary.
I made it halfway to the door before Callum gently intercepted me. “I’ve got it,” he said. “You stay.”
I did, perching on the arm of the couch and listening as he opened the door and greeted her by name. Thalia’s voice carried into the house immediately, warm and familiar and unapologetically loud.
“Wow,” she said. “This place feels different.”
“That’s because I cleaned,” Callum replied, deadpan.
She laughed, and a moment later she was stepping into the living room, eyes lighting up when she saw me.
“There you are,” she said, pulling me into a careful hug that somehow managed to be both enthusiastic and considerate. “You look good.”
“I feel mostly functional,” I said. “Which I think counts as a win.”
“It absolutely does,” she said, squeezing my arm before stepping back and surveying the room. “Okay, this is cozy. I approve.”
More knocks followed in quick succession, each one bringing another familiar face and another layer of energy into the house.
Kara arrived next, already mid-story about something that had gone wrong on her way over.
Andrea followed, softer spoken but observant, her smile immediate and genuine.
Teddy came last, arms full of snacks despite being told explicitly not to bring anything.
“I didn’t listen,” she announced cheerfully. “I never do.”
Callum accepted the offerings with mock solemnity. “I appreciate your honesty.”
Callum moved through the group with an easy, unforced rhythm, pointing out where coats could go, taking handbags with a practiced sweep, and directing everyone toward the living room without ever making it feel like we were being managed.
Thalia immediately claimed a corner of the couch like it had always been hers, Kara perched beside her with her legs tucked under, Andrea drifted toward the armchair, and Teddy dropped onto the floor cushions with a dramatic sigh, declaring them perfect before anyone else could object.
The room filled quickly with overlapping conversation, the kind that rose and fell naturally, stories bumping into each other and looping back around.
I found myself sitting cross-legged between Thalia and Kara, laughing about something minor and ridiculous.
I was mid-sentence, gesturing animatedly about a disastrous attempt at baking from years ago, when the conversation stalled abruptly, not because anyone had lost interest, but because Callum had reappeared in the doorway wearing a black vest, a crisp white shirt, and a ridiculous bowler hat that sat just slightly crooked on his head.
He cleared his throat with theatrical seriousness.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said, his accent deliberately exaggerated. “I will be your butler for the evening. I handle refreshments, entertainment, lighting, and any minor crises involving popcorn distribution.”
There was a beat of silence, and then the room erupted.
“Oh my god,” Thalia said, clutching her chest. “You did not.”
“I absolutely did,” he replied, bowing deeply enough that the hat nearly slid off. “Occupational hazard.”
Teddy squinted at him. “Is this a union position, or are you freelance?”
“Very exclusive contract,” he said smoothly. “One household only.”
Kara turned to me, eyes wide and delighted. “Does he come with the house, or is this a recent upgrade?”
I could feel my face warming as laughter bubbled up, uncontained and easy. “Apparently, this is standard service now,” I said. “I was not consulted.”
Callum straightened and gestured grandly toward the television. “Before I vanish into the service corridors, may I present tonight’s cinematic offerings.”
He produced three DVD cases like a magician fanning cards. “We have White Chicks, for chaos and questionable disguises. The Vow, for feelings and tissues. And Miss Congeniality, for competence and mild crime.”
Andrea did not hesitate. “White Chicks.”
“Absolutely,” Teddy agreed. “I need zero emotional responsibility tonight.”
Thalia laughed. “I want to turn my brain off and be entertained.”
Callum inclined his head solemnly. “An excellent choice.”
He crossed the room, slid the disc into the player with exaggerated care, and dimmed the main light, leaving only the lamps glowing softly around the room.
The space shifted instantly, the brightness giving way to something cozier, more enclosed, like the world had politely narrowed to just us and the screen.
“I shall return shortly,” he announced, placing a hand over his heart. “Please refrain from starting the movie without me. It would wound my professional pride.”
“We make no promises,” Kara called after him.
He disappeared into the kitchen, and the opening credits began to roll, the familiar music prompting a fresh wave of chatter and commentary. We settled into our spots, shifting and rearranging cushions, someone kicking off shoes, someone else stretching out dramatically across the couch.
A few minutes later, Callum returned carrying an armful of snacks. He set down a large bowl of popcorn, several smaller bowls filled with M&Ms, pretzels, and chocolate-covered almonds, and a stack of napkins arranged with unnecessary precision.
“Snacks have arrived,” he said. “Please pace yourselves. There will be refills.”
Thalia picked up a handful of popcorn and eyed him suspiciously. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I live to serve,” he replied, deadpan.
The movie pulled us in quickly, the jokes landing easily, laughter punctuating the dialogue. We talked over parts of it, commenting, teasing, quoting lines before they were even finished. At some point, Callum returned again, this time balancing a tray of drinks.
“Mocktails,” he announced. “Round one.”
Teddy leaned forward to look them over. “Ambitious.”
“I like to pace myself,” he said, setting the tray down.
He started us with a strawberry mojito mocktail, bright pink and garnished with mint and a tiny umbrella.
Soon after, a cranberry sunrise mocktail layered beautifully in the glass, fading from deep red to pale orange arrived, followed by a sparkling raspberry lemonade, fizzy and pale, catching the light.
Every single one had an umbrella, because of course they did.
Kara laughed outright. “These are absurd.”
“That is the goal,” Callum said.
Andrea lifted her glass. “To absurdity.”