by Stacey Kade
Jesus.
“It doesn’t have to be anything serious,” she says quickly, her hands twisting together. “I just want it to be with someone I trust. Someone I care about.” She met my gaze, unflinching. “Please.”
“Callie, you shouldn’t … that should be with someone you’re sure of. Someone you love. A boyfriend or, fuck, I don’t know.” I stuttered out ideas that I wasn’t even sure I agreed with, except in the sense that she deserved the best, whatever that was. Better than me.
“Do you not … is it … are you not attracted to me?” she asked, her chin wobbling.
I glared at her, irrationally angry at her for pushing the issue. “It’s not that. You know it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?” she asked.
I rake my hand through my hair, trying to find the words to explain that it wasn’t her, but me, even as a primal drumbeat throbbed in me. Yes, yes, yes.
But it was like she could read my mind, the doubt in myself. “I’m sure of you,” she said, rising on her tiptoes, her hands balancing lightly on my chest.
Her breath fluttered against my cheek, and then she brushed her mouth over mine, so light it was barely there, but the touch of her lips sent electricity through me.
I closed my eyes. All the better to feel. And my hands moved automatically to her hips, keeping her steady. Pulling her closer.
She made a soft noise in her throat and curled her arms around my neck, pressing us together. And I couldn’t stop myself; I slid a hand up and into her hair, tilting her head and taking control. Tasting her mouth until she gasped, her fingers wrapped tight in my shirt.
Opening my eyes, I pulled away from her, my gaze riveted by her kiss-reddened mouth.
For a moment, the thought of it filled my head. Her head thrown back against my pillow, her legs wrapped tight around my waist, her eyes fierce on mine.
But not just Callie in my bed. Breakfast the next morning, where she would insist on us trying to muddle through making pancakes for ourselves. Or a popcorn fight on my couch on our regular movie night (minus Chase, for once) that would result in me licking every place on her body where the salt may have stuck. Or just places that I wanted to lick. I wanted to see her moaning and shaking above me. To know that I was the one who made her feel that way, the only one. She deserved to have someone who would take the time to make her feel good instead of just focusing on getting off, and I wanted to be that guy.
It was so tempting, so much so that I caught myself taking a step back toward the bedroom, pulling her with me.
A pulse of fear stopped me.
It’ll end badly. It always does. In tears or shitty texts and retribution. It never lasted longer than a few months. The thought of anything more permanent made me itchy. Because when you let someone in, you’re giving them the chance to hurt you. To one day walk away.
Casual friendly sex between two consenting adults was one thing. No harm, no foul. But it wouldn’t be just sex with Calista. I knew that already. It was too dangerous for both of us.
“Callie,” I said softly. “I can’t. Not with you.”
Her face colored, and she pulled away from me. “Because I’ve never—”
“No!” I hesitated, feeling a level of discomfort I never knew existed. “Not exactly. It’s just not a good idea.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Why not?”
“Because meaningless hookups are not who you are,” I said, feeling dull satisfaction when just the words made her blush harder.
But she wasn’t ready to give up. “That’s up to me,” she pointed out.
“I know you, kid,” I began.
“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply.
I held my hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Calista.” I shook my head. “I just meant, it’s complicated. We’re friends, good friends, and I don’t want to ruin that with regrets.” Like I ruined everything—sometimes deliberately, sometimes not. I couldn’t take that chance with her, not and live with myself. Couldn’t stand to see her looking at me with so much hurt when it blew up in our faces.
“How do you know it would ruin things? It wouldn’t have to. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” She edged closer to me again, and I felt my resolve weakening, like the ground was opening up beneath my feet. She knew the worst of me, had seen it for herself. And yet she was still standing here. And she smelled so good. It was too easy to imagine her hands on my skin, on my cock. Learning exactly what I liked. Learning what she liked.
“Except it is,” I snapped.
She raised her eyebrows. “You think it’s a big deal? Didn’t you lose your virginity to some makeup artist when you were, like, fourteen and—”
“Because I know it would mean something to you,” I said, frustrated beyond the point of being careful.
It took her a second, and when it clicked, she rocked back a step, like she was absorbing a blow. “And it wouldn’t to you,” she said in a slight, almost breathless voice. “That’s what you’re saying.”
No. If that were true, I’d already have us in the bedroom and missing most of our clothes.
“I need to go.” I stepped around her to scoop my phone off the table.
“Don’t bother. I’ll leave.” She mustered a tight smile. “You wouldn’t want to keep Angelica waiting.” Then she pushed past me, shoving open the outer door until it banged against the trailer.
“Callie…” But she was gone. That was what I got for trying to do the right thing.
Except that noble intention wasn’t really the truth of it, not entirely.
Looking back on it, I vividly remember how hard my heart was pounding during that conversation, equally from fear and desire.
Not that it matters now, but I’d been right: It was a bad idea. Which I’d later prove to both of us.
* * *
I’d tried to protect her, protect us both, knowing I would hate myself if I hurt her. It was the one honorable thing I’d really tried to stick to. I’d messed that up, of course, and then taken it a step further to make sure she hated me. It worked. She said so herself yesterday, and I don’t blame her.
Except now it doesn’t seem like that’s true. I don’t understand this at all.
“At least wait until we take off and they turn off the seatbelt sign,” Katie says, frowning at me like I’ve lost my mind. “She can’t use her laptop until then anyway.”
“Right.” I tap my hands against my knees, my foot jiggling with excess energy. “You’re right.”
“Here. Something to read.” Grinning, she hands me a magazine that’s already open to a page.
Dos and Don’ts for the Groom-to-Be
“See, and it comes with a handy tear-out card in case you need a portable reminder that you’re supposed to wear a tux and not get drunk before the ceremony.” She rolls her eyes.
She’s expecting this to make me laugh. And a week ago, it would have—the entire bridal industry appears to be centered on the idea that men are idiots and that the future bride best lock him down and keep him in line before his confusion wears off. Something Katie and I have joked about repeatedly. Your shock collar came in. It matches my dress!
Right now, though, the reminder of my planned future just makes my skin feel too tight. And it shouldn’t. I have everything I want, finally. Katie doesn’t take any crap from me, and she expects me to keep up. In work, in life, in taking my turn to walk Bitsy. If I don’t, she’ll cut me loose. Without hesitation.
She doesn’t need me at all. And I love that. It takes the pressure off. I don’t have to worry about hurting her, about screwing up and taking her down with me.
So I need to stay right here in my seat and pretend like everything is normal until it is again. If Calista wants her laptop, she can come and get it.
I force a smile at Katie. “You know me, always looking for more helpful tips. Does it say anything about walking and breathing at the same time?”
She laughs.
I’m not going to mess
this up. I’m not.
9
CALISTA
My temples and face are throbbing from my crying jag in the airport bathroom and the pressure change in the cabin now that we’re thirty minutes under way. But I did it. I made it onto the plane and past Eric and his fiancée without a single additional tear. Or vomiting.
Honestly, I think that should go up on my demo reel because that was some of my finest acting to date.
Right now, though, I just want this plane ride to be over and to be home. Not at my mom and stepdad’s house, though, where my younger sister, Zinn, has taken over my former room. Or even back in my tiny dingy single at Blake.
I don’t know where home is anymore. The thought sends a spiraling sense of panic through me.
The apartment I was renting the year and a half or so before my stint in rehab is long gone. It was bright and sunny, and I liked it. But I didn’t live there long enough for it to ever feel like mine. And many of the days I was there are a bit hazy thanks to my pain management techniques at the time.
When is the last time I felt that safe-at-home feeling? I don’t even remember.
I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, trying to slow my breathing.
“Are you okay?” my seatmate asks.
I open my eyes to see her leaning over the empty seat between us with an annoyed frown. She’s an older woman with tabloids sticking out of her shoulder bag and more spread out on the tray in front of her.
“The airsick bag is in the pocket in front of you,” she says.
“Thanks, I’m fine,” I say.
She returns to her reading, mumbling about sympathetic vomiting and the whole plane being a germ factory.
I shut my eyes again, willing myself to sleep and the oblivion that would accompany it.
I can’t, though.
Instead, I stare at the darkness of my closed eyelids, pulling through threads of memory, searching for that lost sensation of home.
After a few seconds, it pops into focus. The interior of my trailer on Starlight. Except that’s not quite right because for most of my tenure there, my mother would have been flitting around me, straightening my wardrobe, fussing over my hair, and scolding about carbs.
But in the vision in my head, it’s my trailer, with Eric stretched out on the couch, waiting, semi-impatiently, for me to hurry up and finish removing my makeup so we could leave for movie night at his house. So the third season.
Or Chase, Eric and I stuck in some anonymously bland hotel, during a fan convention or a press junket, and playing Uno to kill time because those were the only cards available in the gift shop. Eric and I secretly colluded, using hand signals, to keep Chase from winning, something Chase protested vehemently once he figured it out. Which only made it all the more fun. “Y’all are a bunch of reprobates,” he said in disgust, chucking his cards on the table.
Eric blowing powdered sugar at me across the craft services table, all over the dried kale my mother was pushing into my hand. My mother yanking me away in response.
Or when Eric and I sneaked into that hotel swimming pool in Germany and …
I stop, a belated realization forcing me upright, my eyes open. There’s a theme here that’s impossible to miss.
But how big of an idiot does that make me? Not just after everything that’s happened between us but when he’s obviously chosen someone else to be his home.
This is so messed up.
I make myself take another deep breath. Do not panic. It’s just two weeks. I can handle that.
Two weeks of Eric every day and probably Katie, too. Bringing him, I don’t know, homemade cookies and his bound-to-be adorable dog. Maybe homemade cookies for his adorable dog.
I groan, rubbing my forehead.
My seatmate lurches forward. “Do you need me to call the stewardess? I can’t handle you throwing up on me.”
I stare at her and open my mouth to respond, but then I see Eric charging down the aisle toward me. His mouth is a tight unhappy line, and his cheeks are streaky with color.
He shoves my backpack at me. “Your laptop. For homework,” he says, biting off the words.
“Okay.” I take the backpack, expecting him to turn and stomp off.
Instead, he stands there, far too close and looming over me, his hands on his hips. “I’m getting married,” he says, the words tight, as though they’re grating on the way out.
“I’m aware. I believe I’m the one who brought it up,” I say, fighting the rising tide of anger.
He flinches, ever so slightly, at my words. And for a second, I feel gritty satisfaction at having scored a point.
Eric shakes his head. “You can’t … you shouldn’t feel anything about that.”
I gape at him. “Are you serious right now?” I’m stunned. Not just that we’re having this discussion but that we’re having it here.
I can practically feel my seatmate pressing against my side to listen in.
“I was an asshole to you,” he points out, like that makes any kind of sense.
“Yes. Thank you for the reminder,” I say tightly. My jaw is aching with everything I want to say, all the words backed up down my throat and clamoring to be released. And I’m just weak enough to let some of them go, unfair though they may be. “It’s not like I don’t have enough of those.” I lift my injured arm in example.
He reels back, his face blanching, and guilt tugs at me.
But then he nods and points at me. “Yes, exactly. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice rising in spite of myself.
My seatmate clears her throat in disapproval, and Eric’s gaze shoots from me to her. “I’m sorry,” he says in a deceptively pleasant voice. “Are we interrupting your study of botched plastic surgeries? Or celebrities with cellulite?”
An offended gasp is her only answer. I’m betting we have under a minute before she punches the flight attendant call button.
Eric’s attention returns to me. “You need to learn to protect yourself better than that.”
I can’t figure out if I’m more confused or angry at this point. “Are you saying you want me to hate you?”
“Yes, because I deserve it,” he says before clamping his mouth shut so tight that I can see a jaw muscle twitching.
In spite of everything, or maybe because I am a hopeless case when it comes to him, my battered heart gives a pathetic thump for him at those words. Because lots of people hate him—for various reasons, mostly for what he appears to be—and I know he believes he deserves that too.
But then he keeps going. “And because that means you’ve learned not to let people walk all over you anymore.”
Fury returns in a sudden whoosh, blood pounding past my ears and into my already-throbbing head. “You are the one who came after me,” I grit out. “You’re the one who pulled me out of my life, a life that I chose, and forced me to be here.”
He looks tired suddenly. “And you’re the one who let me. You’re the one who allows your mother to own you. It’s your weakness.”
I squeeze my hands into tight fists until pain shoots up into my damaged arm.
E-fucking-nough.
My hand flies up, and I slap at the call button myself, before my neighbor can do it. “I might still have things to learn, Eric, but it is not up to you to teach me,” I say.
Emotion flickers across his face, gone before I can identify it. “Calista—”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but you need to return to your seat,” the flight attendant says as she approaches. “We have to keep the aisle clear.” It’s a gentle scolding, with a smile on the edge of flirtation because it’s Eric.
But she’s not messing around, and neither am I.
I bare my teeth at him in the semblance of a grin, and he raises his hands in a sarcastic gesture of surrendering before backing away.
That’s right. I win, asshole. The girl who would have “let” you do anythi
ng is gone.
* * *
The rest of the flight passes relatively peacefully. I try very hard not to listen for anything that sounds like Eric’s laugh or Katie’s voice from first class—it’s none of my business what they talk about, even if it is pathetic little me.
Instead, I put my earbuds in and attempt to focus on my accounting project until my curiosity gets the better of me and I open the file my mom sent last night.
I don’t even bother to read the accompanying email, paragraph upon paragraph, with some directed toward my agent, Mike. Experience tells me that some of it will make me cringe, and she’ll just say it all over again the next time I pick up the phone when she calls.
The PDF contains the scripts for ten webisodes of Fly Girl. Seeing Jude’s name on the cover page sends an awed chill through me, raising goosebumps on my skin. The only thing missing from this moment is that I’d always imagined my name on there with hers instead of Eric’s.
And as tempting as it is to blame him for taking this from me along with everything else, the truth is I walked away from this particular dream a long time ago.
I read through the pages, losing myself in Evie’s world. It’s good, really good, and my hand twitches at intervals, automatically reaching for a pen to scrawl notes for my performance.
Some of the writing and scene choices are not what I would have made, but that’s because some of them are better, smarter. I see Jude’s hand in the dialogue, definitely, but I can also see the work Eric had put into the form and function of each piece. Growing up on the sets of his father’s shows—like SpyWear, the one about the supermodels-slash-international spies—had made an impact. Even in these short ten minute sections there are cliffhangers and emotionally cathartic moments, and they’re doled out carefully and placed judiciously to keep viewers coming back for more.
By the time I’m done reading, even I want more. Damn him. My heart is aching for Evie and Cory. She’s not sure of who she is without her abilities, and he’s not sure what kind of life they might have together if she’s not who she once was. They were balanced before, opposite sides of the same coin, and now he feels that they’re too different. That she can’t be a match for him anymore and that it’s wrong (and dangerous) to try to hold on to her and their relationship if she has the chance to be a regular person again instead of a freak.