Chapter Seven Sophie #2
Letting the grief crawl out of me in pieces was kind of nice, and sometime in the last twenty-four hours, my heartbreak has evolved.
It's calcified into something angrier.
And that feels better.
Every time his stupid, beautiful face flickers across my memory—those blue eyes, that crooked smile, the voice that once made me melt—I force myself to focus on the betrayal, the disloyalty, the cowardice of it all.
Anger, I’ve learned, is productive.
I can channel anger into movement, into action, into spreadsheets and gleaming floors and organized bookshelves.
Feeling sad and wallowing over Paul is just... a huge waste of time.
And time is something I might be running out of.
The tarot cards invade my thoughts, Maeve's gentle but confident voice telling me about already possessing the strength needed. About healing from this heartbreak, from this sickness. The Tower card and her words about needing things to break, the removal of waste.
So, perhaps this breaking was necessary. Maybe the demolition of my life wasn't cruelty, but a clearing.
But even more than Maeve’s words, there was Callum and the way he made me just forget for a moment.
Just thinking his name makes me feel warm and strange.
Callum Rhodes.
I close my eyes and think of the gentle giant.
God, where do I start?
He’s handsome, definitely—that was the first thing I noticed. He's tall—like really tall—the kind of tall that makes me tilt my head all the way back to look him in the eye.
His shoulders are broad, not the sculpted kind built in a weight room, but the kind earned through years of physical work. Not shredded, he’s solid, thick, and sturdy in a way that makes him seem immovable and safe.
His short hair is dark, a couple of shades deeper than mine and he has a neatly trimmed beard that frames a mouth that was curved into the kindest smile.
And his eyes.
The warmest chocolate brown I've ever seen. When they landed on me, it was like he was actually seeing me, not just looking.
He was just a good man, being decent and kind to me, actually hearing what I asked for like it mattered—like I mattered—and making me laugh in a way I haven't in...
Huh, I honestly can't remember the last time I laughed like that..
Then he talked about the book club—a happy-ending book club that he invited me into.
The way he described it made it sound heavenly. Not to mention, the thought of having an excuse to go back to the store—his store—is so tempting, dangerously so.
But...
I'm worried about the coming months, the inevitable changes to my body. I'm worried about my reflection shifting into a person I don't know. I'm terrified this will alter who I am—not just on the outside, but on the inside too.
What if I attach myself to these people and they drop me? What if I allow myself to hope and it all falls apart? What would I do then?
What if, Sophie? Are you going to sink your limited time on 'what ifs' or are you actually going to live?
That sharp, no-nonsense voice in my head sounds a lot like Tess, and that's what causes motivation to flood my entire body.
I look at the clock in the corner of the screen and see that I have time—I can still go.
"Get up and move," I order myself out loud, and somehow, my feet listen, taking me to the bedroom.
I pull open my closet and ignore how empty it feels now, forcing my mind to focus on the bright side—I have a lot more space in here now for new clothes.
New memories. A new version of myself.
Optimism buzzes under my skin. Maybe it's the bookstore or the owner, or maybe it's the idea of people who might smile when they see me.
What if I do change, but for the better? What if I come out on the other side of this stronger than ever, a new version of me? What if I develop a brand new outlook on life—to seize the day—because tomorrow you could find a lump in your breast that derails your entire planned life?
What if I learn to stop waiting for permission to be happy?
Grabbing a pair of jeans, I quickly yank them on and reach for my white canvas sneakers off the shoe rack.
It was chilly out earlier, so I grab my sage green sweater and pull it over the soft white T-shirt I'm already wearing.
I shove my socked feet into my shoes and swing my tote bag over my shoulder with a small smile—I didn't lie, the Rivers & Rhodes bag is my favorite now.
Locking the apartment door, I rush down the stairs and look at the clock on my phone.
Rivers & Rhodes is a twenty-minute walk, fifteen if I power walk. I could take my car, but finding parking would take too long.
"I can make it," I reassure myself, and head out into the pleasantly brisk late-summer evening with that end-of-day light that makes everything feel golden.
I make it in seventeen minutes.
Just as I reach the front steps, I spot Callum through the glass door, already reaching for the deadbolt to lock up.
His brown eyes meet mine, and I give a small wave, trying to catch my breath. I take him in in one sweep—oh, wow.
Callum's dressed in a short-sleeve white T-shirt stretched just slightly over his broad chest, worn-in jeans hugging long legs, and scuffed dark brown boots on his feet. There's a watch around his left wrist, the brown leather weathered and worn.
His face freezes when he sees me, and my stomach drops. I wonder—for one horrifying moment—if maybe he'd only offered the invitation out of pity. The thought wedges under my skin like a splinter.
But then, as if someone had flipped a switch inside his brain, his entire face transforms.
His beard twitches as his mouth curves into a wide, unashamed smile, so earnest it steals the air from my lungs.
He pushes the door open for me.
"Sophie!"
His deep voice is pure warm honey, and he sounds genuinely happy to see me.
If I could bottle up the feeling in my chest right now...
"Hi," I say, my voice breathless as I close the distance between us. "I'm so sorry, I'm a little last-minute—"
"No, you're right on time," he cuts in, holding the door open wider with a grin. "Come on in."
I step into the warm store, watching as he locks the door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
There’s a cacophony of soft conversation with a sudden burst of laughter deeper into the store. Callum's grin widens as he looks at me, leading me toward the noise.
The shop smells much like it did when I came in on Thursday—like cedar and that distinct, amazing smell of books, but now with the scent of coffee added in.
It's wonderful, and I breathe deeply, letting the comforting mix of scents ease my nerves.
Through a beaded curtain near where Maeve read my tarot is another room—decorated with more warm wood furniture and lit by soft lamplight.
A hodgepodge group of people sits around a long wooden table in mismatched chairs, talking at the same time and laughing with the ease of a family.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I spy a Plot sleeping curled on the cat tree in the corner of the room. I laugh as his fluffy paws twitch, probably stuck in some dream chasing mice.
That tightly coiled knot in my stomach loosens even more.
A heavily tattooed woman tosses a coffee stirrer at the man sitting across from her, scoffing at what seems like his passionate analysis of the book he's using as a shield.
"You're so full of shit, Parker," she says, running a hand through her straight, bleached-blonde hair.
"That's Tonya," Callum murmurs beside me and smiles when I meet his eyes for a quick second, a note of amusement in his voice. "Her bark's worse than her bite."
"How dare you," Tonya calls over with a grin, catching the tail end of his words. "My bite is lethal."
She raises the mug in her hands and takes a sip, steel blue eyes trained on me now—sharp, but not unkind.
Her fingers, wrapped around the mug, are adorned with mismatched silver and gold rings.
Thick black eyeliner sweeps out from the corners of her eyes in a sharp line, and her bright red lipstick is flawless as her lips quirk into a grin.
"Who's the cutie pie?"
Tonya's words catch the attention of the entire group, and I suddenly feel like the new kid in school again, having to stand in front of the class and string together a coherent introduction.
"Guys, this is Sophie," Callum says warmly with that insanely endearing grin of his. "Our newest member."
"Hi," I smile and wave shyly, trying to be brave.
This was part of it, that letter I wrote to myself. I'm not going to waste this year, I'm going to make more friends—my own friends—not Paul's friends.
Making friends means stepping out of your comfort zone and trying new things, even when it's scary.
Growth is derived from a place of discomfort.
"I'm Parker," says the man Tonya pelted with the stirrer, raising a hand in greeting. He's got deep brown eyes, black hair shaved on the sides and short on top, and fawn colored skin.
Parker has the kind of bone structure that makes me think he could walk into a modelling agency and be hired on the spot. He's in a faded band t-shirt and jeans so ripped they're essentially just threads held together by hope.
"Atticus," the man sitting next to Tonya says in a deep, almost hoarse voice.
Even sitting, I can clearly see that he's tall—maybe around Callum's height—but stockier.
Honestly, it looks like he could bench press a truck without breaking a sweat.
His dark hair matches his beard, and he's got a crooked grin that softens his whole face. His white T-shirt has grease stains across the chest, and his bottom half is covered in blue mechanic’s overalls, tied at the waist.
The woman sitting next to him looks to be around my age. Her eyes look at Atticus, pink flushing at her cheeks, but she looks away before he can meet her hazel eyes.
However, it's clear as day from the look on his face that he's extremely fond of her.
He smiles and gestures to her, "This is Jane."
Jane is very pretty, black hair contrasting with her very pale skin. She's dressed in fitted black slacks, a soft-looking green blouse, and black loafers.
She won't—or can't, I suspect—meet my eyes, and her posture is tight in her seat, hands wringing together in her lap. I catch a quick look of relief she gives to Atticus for the introduction, before she looks over my right shoulder and gives me a quick nod.
"Hello," her voice is soft and husky.
Atticus beams at the sound of it.
"I'm Bailey!"
The insanely gorgeous woman next to Jane chirps, wearing a megawatt smile.
She looks like a perfectly decorated cupcake—her deep brown skin is flawless and practically glowing, her black corkscrew curls are pulled back with a bubblegum pink ribbon.
Her voice is bubbly and bright as she says, "So nice to meet you! "
To her right, a girl waves with one hand before returning to the crochet project in her lap.
"April," she says, not looking up from the yarn.
She looks the youngest—maybe twenty—with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and a head of wild ginger curls.
Her brown t-shirt reads Rise N' Grind with the local coffee house's logo beneath it, and her dark jeans are ripped at the knees. She's got scuffed Vans on her feet and a massive canvas tote bag on the ground next to her, half-spilling over with tangled yarn.
The whole room is mismatched and chaotic in the best possible way, and something tugs in my chest.
Hope, I think.
"Welcome to Ever After Always," Tonya raises her mug to me.
"It’s nice to meet you guys," I say, smiling in a way that I hope doesn't look timid. My eyes flick over to Callum’s, and I freeze slightly when I realize his eyes are already on me, warm and searching.
My face heats instantly, a rush of embarrassed awareness blooming across my cheeks.
He blinks suddenly, like he didn't realize he was staring, and quickly clears his throat, looking away with a sheepish twist of his mouth.
Tonya snorts from her seat, having noticed the whole quiet exchange.
"Uh... here," Callum murmurs, pulling out a chair for me, and I smile, murmuring a thank you as he slides into the one next to mine.
"So, we're finishing up our latest book today," Callum gently tells me, his voice a low rumble that settles warm in my stomach like a shot of whiskey. "We'll start something new next week. No pressure to talk unless you want to—you can just hang back and get the gist."
I like that he seems to sense my anxiety, that I'm a little nervous and overwhelmed, and doesn't want me to push myself past my limit. He gives me the space to exist however I need to.
Despite his towering frame, there's a genuine gentleness in his movements and speech.
I nod, grateful to him, and try not to read too much into the way his knee brushes mine under the table—accidental, probably, definitely—and the pleasant heat that spreads through my chest at the contact.
I'm four days out from my heart getting ripped out and stomped on—my engagement and life imploding like a dying star—and I'm staring down months of surgery and chemotherapy. Any kind interaction would cause that warmth to grow.
Callum is kind to me, and I'm in a bit of a kindness drought right now.
That's the only reason.
Right?