48. CALLUM
48
CALLUM
Chloe’s side of the bed is empty when I wake up.
As I adjust to the light, I stretch out a hand to where she was lying. I startle. Kicking at the sheets to sit up and scan her room for her.
The door is closed, lights off. No Tucker.
I’m not sure when I fell asleep last night. . . or what time it is now.
Chloe fell asleep. Deep breaths, lips parted. She was so peaceful compared to when I found her in the shower. Body still from exhaustion—she didn’t move once in my arms. Her head resting on my chest, a hand interlocked in mine.
My heartbeat synced with her breathing while I watched her. I laid there for hours, alternating from stroking a thumb on her forehead to twirling a strand of drying hair between my fingers.
The marathon I’m training for had nothing on the marathon my thoughts were running last night. Around 3 a.m., my stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten last night. Glancing down at Chloe, her words replayed, you can’t leave . She might be fast asleep, but I couldn’t leave her still.
The last thing I remember before I must have fallen asleep was shutting off my Saturday alarms, not wanting to wake her, but also wanting to keep her in my arms for as long as possible—who knows what morning might bring. I set a reminder to cancel my Saturday obligations. Nothing is more important than Chloe. Nothing .
I kick my legs over the side of the bed. Opening the door, my body relaxes. The sound of the Goo Goo Dolls softly floats up the stairs.
Chloe’s bare legs swing off the counter when I get to the bottom of the stairs. Eyes closed, head tilted back.
“Morning, Dais.” I settle up next to her, giving her knee a light squeeze.
“Morning, Pretty Boy.” Chloe levels her head with mine. Her gray eyes aren’t as cloudy, the glassy appearance more of a haze. A quarter smile pulls on her lips; it’s a smile that could be easily missed—and I think a lot of people do. I’m starting to think it’s her signature, just enough of a smile to prove she doesn’t hate the world—but I would never. “You were asleep when I woke. I didn’t want to wake you. I was unsure when you fell asleep last night.”
“I appreciate it, but you could have.” Chloe rests a hand on top of mine on the counter. “What time did you get up?”
She bites her lip. “Four.”
“You’ve been up for—” I still don’t know what time it is.
“Five hours.”
“D—” I am about to reprimand her, but stop. “How did you sleep?”
“In the quiet, finally.” Her lips tick up a little bit more. “You must have some sleeping superpower. I haven’t slept like that in years.” She sigh-laughs. “Being in your arms was magic.”
I flip my hand over, thumb hugging hers.
Being in your arms was magic.
If she only realized that being around her is as magical.
There’s nothing special about me, never has been, but Chloe makes me feel as if every cell that makes up my body is extraordinary. That I matter.
“How did you sleep?” she asks.
“Yeah, good. ”
“Good. So I—I uh.” Chloe removes her hand from mine, jumping off the counter. My Imperial College rugby shirt falls to her knees, more of a dress than a tee. “I made you tea.”
“Tea?” My body spins in her direction.
“It could be cold. . . probably is. And we can heat it up, but you’ll probably hate it.” Chloe opens the microwave door, picking up a cuppa. I take it from her outstretched hand, the mug still warm, barely.
“Thank you.” I inhale the aroma.
Then, take a sip. She’s staring at me, eyes wide on the edge of her seat, nervously awaiting my reaction. It’s Goldilocks perfect. I take another sip, larger this time.
Not too hot or cold—I prefer a lukewarm tea.
Not too sweet or bitter.
I take a third sip. Chloe twiddles with the hem of my shirt.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’ve memorized how I take my tea.”
She swallows slowly. “I did.” Chloe tilts her head to the side. “Two sugars and a splash of milk.”
“Mhmm,” I say over my cuppa.
“That’s if it’s breakfast tea. You take a decaffeinated tea around three with one spoonful of honey—sometimes two.” She pauses, the tip of her tongue peeking past her lips. I want to kiss her, for remembering my tea, for wearing my shirt, for being everything I didn’t know I was searching for, and for being cute—I hate using the word cute for anyone above the age of twenty-five, but with her, right now, cute is the equivalent to being devastatingly perfect. “You like peppermint tea with nothing in it.”
“Peppermint tea with nothing in it,” I say simultaneously.
I didn’t realize I took my tea so many ways.
Chloe takes her coffee one way and only one way—an iced oat milk latte with honey.
“I like that you know that. You’ve been watching me, paying attention. ”
“I have,” she admits. “Plus, it’s the least I could do, especially after last night.” Chloe spins the straw in the cup she picked up.
“I told you whatever you need, Chloe. I’m here.”
She nods. “I know.”
There’s a pause—a silent moment between us.
“Did you eat? I’m starved.”
“Actually, I was thinking about taking Tucker for a long walk. Want to come, and we can grab breakfast?”
“I’d love that.”
***
“You don’t have to keep eating gluten-free because of me.” Chloe looks up at me as we start walking again after breakfast—we split a stack of GF pancakes with blueberry compote.
“I know.” I smiled down at her. She could tell me she only ate cardboard, and I’d probably make it my every meal. “You don’t have to wear my shirt,” I tease, finally bringing it up.
Once we agreed to go on the walk, we both changed. Chloe threw on a pair of leggings, a winter coat over my shirt, and a wooly hat.
Her head turns down, realizing what she’s still wearing, her jacket unzipped a quarter way down.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s better on you.”
“I didn’t want to wake you, so I snuck into your room and grabbed the first clean shirt I could find.”
“You mean going into my dresser drawers?”
“No. . .” Her lip quivers, and a single brow arches.
“Admit it, you want to wear it.”
“ No .” She walks ahead of me, forcing me to chase after her.
We walk silently, taking the long way back to our place—Chloe’s people-watching. I’m Chloe watching.
Making our way down the stairs to the River Walk, crossing the DuSable Bridge, Chloe says, “About last night— ”
“We don’t need to talk about it,” I cut in, not wanting her to feel any responsibility to explain.
Do I want to know? Yes.
Would I force her to tell me? No.
“I know, but I want to.” Her head tilts up, gray locking with blue. She exhales and you can see it. “I want to tell you.”
On the bottom stair, my expression must be weary because Chloe follows up with, “If that’s okay with you. I—I don’t have to talk about it.” Threading my fingers into hers, I tug her to the side, out of the way, once we are off the stairs.
“Please tell me. I don’t care how big or small it is; I want to know everything about you, Dais.” I adjust her hat for her, letting my fingers linger on the sides of her face. “But you don’t owe me an explanation.
“Whatever you went through yesterday, you can keep to yourself or tell me. I meant what I said: I’m here for you. Whatever way you need.” I want to take back those words, realizing she needed—wanted—me for sex last night, and I turned that down. I keep going, knowing there isn’t a way to erase the sting she probably felt from those words. “As crazy as it sounds, I’m happy I found you last night. That you weren’t alone. And if that’s how I can best support you, then move over, Tucker, I’m your new guard dog. I’ll sit with you through anything. Stay by your side. Never leave. But only tell me if you want to, not because you have to, ” I repeat the words, making sure each syllable is heard loud and clear.
Her eyes are glassy, a meniscus of tears waiting to be spilled. A single one breaks through the barrier, falling down her olive cheek. Dropping the leash, she wipes her hand across her face, bumping my thumb.
“Shit, Chloe. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”
“I’m not upset.” She wipes another tear. “I promise.” Chloe shakes her head. “I’m scared you’ll regret those words as soon as I tell you. ”
I won’t. There’s nothing she could say that would make me leave, not want her.
“You don’t get to decide how I’ll react, Chloe.”
“Never mind,” she blows out, moving away. My hand slips from her.
I circle her wrist, tugging. She spins to face me.
“You said you wanted to tell me. What are you suddenly afraid of?”
“I killed my brother. . .”