by Callie Hart
“Coralie? Ahh shit. I don’t wanna upset you. Tell me if I’m being a jerk here. God, I’m being a fucking asshole, aren’t I? I just thought…” He leans away, sitting straight, our bodies no longer touching, and fear rushes through me. I start speaking, though I have no real idea what I want to say.
“No. No, you’re not being an asshole. I just don’t…I’m not exactly…”
“Into me?”
“I am definitely into you, Callan Cross,” I whisper. Feels like I’ve waited an eternity to say those words, even though I never really imagined I’d be brave enough to spit them out. They slide out of my mouth so easily now, silk off the end of my tongue, without embarrassment or fear. I feel the way he tenses beside me.
“I’m into you, too, Coralie Taylor.”
“That’s a good thing, I think.”
He pauses, and then says, “I think so, too.” I can hear the smile in his voice. He sounds the way he sounds when he’s happy—not the same way he sounds when he’s being arrogant and fooling around. No, he normally only has that soft, gentle texture to his voice when he’s talking about something that means something to him, which is infrequent. It feels very special that he’s speaking about us, me and him, in that tone of voice.
We both sit and soak in the few sentences we just parted with, until eventually Callan says, “So what do you propose we do about this mutual appreciation of one another?”
I pluck up the courage to look at him, turning my head to one side, and I’m possessed by the immediate and intense need to look away again. He just said I was beautiful, but he’s the one that looks like a Michelangelo painting. He’s the one that stops girls in the hallway at high school and has them whispering about him behind their cupped hands. It’s almost too much to bear that he’s so close to me and he’s looking at me like he wants to take me into his arms and hold me there forever.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I’m not going to kiss you.”
A jolt of shame floods me. Was I looking like I wanted him to? Oh god. “No, no, of course not. Of course not. That would be—”
“It would be amazing. Coralie, of course I’m going to kiss you eventually. It just feels like now’s not the moment it’s meant to happen. Does that make sense?”
I nod slowly. With all of this talk about me liking him and him liking me, it would feel a little contrived if we started sucking face straight away. “I know. I get it. Another time. There’s too much pressure now.”
“Exactly. How about we discuss this instead?” he asks, giving me a broad smile as he reaches over and picks up the disposable Kodak camera from on top of the book in my lap.
“I was planning on asking about that, yeah. Photography’s your thing, not mine. I feel like this might have accidentally made its way into my birthday parcel.” I take it from him, holding it up to my face so I can see a tiny, deformed version of him through the viewfinder.
The lumpy version of Callan shakes his head. “No, it was entirely intentional. Yes, photography is my thing, but,” he holds up an index finger. “I was hoping that you might enjoy it, too. I was kind of hoping that maybe you would participate in a small challenge with me?”
I lower the camera, frowning at him. “What kind of challenge?”
“The best kind. The kind where you are you and I am me, and we see where we meet in the middle. How many shots does that camera have on it, Coralie?”
I glance down and check the small window on top of the camera housing. “It says there are thirty-one.”
“Great. There were thirty-two earlier, but I used up one of your shots before I gave you your gift.”
“You did? Cheat. What did you take a picture of?”
“That’ll be a surprise when I show you how to develop the film at the end of the month, won’t it?” He smirks, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth. “The rest of those shots, they’re for you to take. I was thinking maybe you could take a new picture every day for a month, and I could do the same, and then at the end of the month we can compare all of the things we’ve seen.”
I turn the camera over cautiously in my hands, not sure about what he’s asking of me. “I don’t know, Cal. I mean, I’ve seen your photos. They’re beautiful. I don’t have an eye for stuff like that. I’m sure any picture I took would look terrible.”
“Not true. Anyway, this isn’t about who takes the better picture. This is about the things you see as you go about your day that effect you in some way. The things that make you feel something. The things that move you. I want to know those things. And…and I guess I kinda wanna share that stuff with you, too.”
He looks down at his hands. I’ve never seen him unsure of himself, per se, but Callan looks like he might be a little lost right now. There are many factors that could lead me to being brave. Maybe the fact that I know he cares about me now and that knowledge has relieved some of the does-he/doesn’t-he panic inside me, or maybe it has something to do with the fact that it’s my birthday and Dad has gone fishing, but either way it happens. I am brave. I reach out and offer him my hand. He breaks out into a smile as he looks at my palm, and then slowly he lifts his own hand and places it into mine.
“What do you say, then?” he says, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. A deep dimple forms in his left cheek as he tries to suppress his smile. “Are you game?”
I hesitate. And then, “Okay. Sure. Sounds like it might be fun.”
Callan nods, still trying to mask the fact that he’s on the brink of beaming. He can’t hide the pleasure in his eyes, though. “I hate to say it, but I have to go soon. Mom said she wasn’t feeling well earlier. She needs me to run some errands for her. What time will your dad be back?”
“Not until late, probably.”
“Good. Then…my mom, she kind of asked if you’d like to come over for dinner. She said she wanted to meet you.” He looks so uncomfortable as he tells me this. I’ve seen Mrs. Cross leaving for work in her scrubs early in the morning sometimes. She sings as she collects the bills and circulars from the mailbox at the end of their driveway, and she sings as she gets into her beaten up Ford and drives away. She’s tall and slim, dark-haired like Callan. They have the same high cheekbones and proud forehead. She’s a very beautiful woman. Sunshine seems to shine out of her, the same way it shone out of my mother. My nerves flare up again. Meeting Callan’s mother sounds lovely but also very intimidating at the same time. What if she hates me? What if she thinks I’m too broken to date her son?
“There’s no reason to look so freaked out,” Callan says, slowly rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. “I know most guys my age hate their parents, but my mom’s kind of a badass. She’s pretty awesome.”
It’s funny how he can allay my fears with just a few words. “Okay, then. That would be great,” I tell him. I walk Callan downstairs, still clutching the book he bought me to my chest, and I feel like I’m floating. It’s a wonderful feeling. Callan hugs me at the front door, and my pulse races into hyper drive. We’ve hugged before—brief squeezes goodbye every once in a while—but now our bodies align and connect, and remain connected. His arms tighten around me, his hands resting in the small of my back, and he breathes deep and slow into the crook of my neck. As of today, I’ve been alive for sixteen years, and this small collection of seconds, one stacking on top of the other, is by far the most exhilarating moment out of all of the seconds and minutes, hours and days of my short existence. While Callan holds me, my face resting against his chest, my ear pressed up against the echo of his heartbeat, I’m not worried. I’m not thinking about my father, or how I’m going to survive tomorrow or next week, or next month. I’m just here, being held by him, and it’s perfect.
Shifting, Callan leans back so he can look at me. For so long, my daily goal has been to distance myself from my body, to be outside of it, somewhere else, so I’m an observer in the pain and humiliation it has to endure. Not right now, though. This is the first time that my body has felt
like a gift, and I want to be in it, fused and sealed inside my blood and bone, so I can own this moment where Callan is looking down at me like he’s just won the lottery.
Slowly, fraction-by-fraction, inch-by-inch, he leans down, his eyes sparking with what looks like nerves and anticipation. A part of me knows he’s going to kiss me, but my brain is repeating his words from up on the roof—that he wasn’t going to. Not yet. It’s only when his lips are skating over mine, barely touching my mouth that I realize this really is happening. I’ve seen plenty of kids making out in the hallways at high school, but I had no idea it would feel like this. Like time has stopped, ground to a stubborn halt, as your soul starts singing. I fall, melt, burn and fly all at once. I kiss him back, opening my mouth to him, staggered by the intensity of emotion I feel for him as he cups my face with one hand. His fingers trace a soft line below my ear, pausing at the nape of my neck, and every single hair on my body stands on end.
I curve myself into him, and Callan huffs down his nose as he carefully, gently tastes me with his tongue.
“Callan Cross, you put that girl down this instant, you hear me?”
Callan lets go of me like I’ve suddenly burst into flames, taking a giant step back, a horrified look on his face. Over his shoulder, Friday is storming through the gate at the front of the yard with a frilly yellow parasol gripped in her right hand. She looks like she’s about to commit murder. Algie tears up the path, barking and snarling, bearing his teeth at Callan.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry, I forgot she was coming to make me a birthday breakfast.” I cover my mouth with my hand, trying not to laugh while Friday makes a beeline for a very frightened looking Callan.
“What’s gotten into you two fools,” she demands, swatting at me with her parasol. “You can’t be fornicatin’ like that out on the front doorstep for the whole world to see. And on a Saturday, too, so close to the damn Sabbath. I swear, I ought to wring both of your necks.” She smiles in that grumpy way of hers, though, and I know she’s not really upset.
“Sorry, Mrs. Beauchamp. We were hardly fornicating, though,” Callan says.
“Looked like it from where I was standing. And don’t be calling me Mrs. Beauchamp, neither. I ain’t never been married. Have you got cotton candy for brains, boy? Call me Friday or nothin’ at all.”
This is hardly the first time Callan’s met Friday—they live across the street from one another, and in a town like Port Royal, that almost makes you family—but this is obviously the first time he’s been busted kissing a girl by her. He’s not handling it very well.
“Sorry, Friday. I—I should probably get going.”
“I should think so.” Friday places one hand on an ample hip, scowling at him. When he doesn’t actually move, she makes a disgruntled growling sound and bustles past me into the house, toting her parasol in one hand and a net bag of groceries in the other. “Make sure you ain’t out there long, Miss,” she tells me. Calling Algie after her, she disappears.
Once she’s gone, Callan starts laughing. “Damn. That wasn’t really how I’d planned that.”
“I know. She’s…something else.”
“Mm hmm.” Callan sighs, taking a step toward me. He takes hold of my hand, squeezing it lightly. “I really do have to go. I’ll see you later for dinner?” I nod, and he kisses me ever so gently on my forehead, right between my eyes. “Happy birthday, bluebird.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CORALIE
Surrender
NOW
I try to call Ben but the line is busy. Who the hell is he talking to at ten-thirty on a Tuesday night? Ben’s mother calls him late sometimes, but only ever on a Wednesday and a Saturday, and even she can’t talk for more than an hour before she runs out of things to say. When I try him again at midnight, the line is still engaged.
I pace restlessly around my hotel room, my blood boiling over like a simmering pot. Callan really has no right to talk that way to me. We’re not close anymore. We haven’t been close for such a long time. Even if we’d remained in touch and still spoke every once in a while, it would still be highly inappropriate for him to say that the only man I should ever marry is him. I mean, what the fuck was he thinking? And to just spit it out like that in front of everyone? That was madness. Sheer, absolute fucking madness.
I call down to the front desk and order a bottle of Pinot Grigio. The woman on the desk tells me she’ll have one sent right up, but that the hotel’s license ends at twelve am sharp so I won’t be able to place any further orders. I amend my order and ask for two bottles of Pinot Grigio instead. She doesn’t sound happy, but tells me they’ll be right up. When the chilled bottles arrive, I sit on the floor of the bathroom with the shower running next to me, and I drink. I drink until one of the bottles is empty and I’m struggling to open the screw cap on the second. Classy.
My cell phone rings at one in the morning. Ben’s voice sounds tight and stressed. “Hey, Cora. What’s been going on? I’ve been trying to reach you for—two days. I’vebeenworriedsick.”
“Sorry. I’ve just been having a god-awful time back here. There’s been so much to do, and I’ve had to deal with…people.” I’ve mastered the art of appearing sober, even when I’m not. I sound perfectly normal as I talk into the receiver. The same, however, can’t be said for Ben.
“Great. I—can’t—d’you need me—metodoanything?” He always runs his words together when he’s been drinking. Weird that he’s awake and this drunk on a weeknight, though. He always polices my alcohol intake to two glasses of wine with dinner when we both have to be up for work the next morning.
“No, there’s nothing you can do,” I tell him. “Have you been drinking?”
“Mmm, just a couple of beers…with the guys after work.”
He never goes drinking with the guys from work. He’s told me repeatedly that they’re all drunken morons, and why the hell would he want to hang out with them after office hours? Suspicion itches at the back of my mind, but I choose to ignore it.
“Great. Maybe you should get yourself to bed, then. You know how bad your hangovers are if you don’t sleep.” My own hangover is bound to be epic, but I don’t have anything to do tomorrow, besides hand in those papers at the morgue.
“Yeah, you’re right. G’night, Cora. Love you.”
“Mmm. You too.” I hang up the phone, and for the millionth time I hear Ben’s voice saying, ‘Did it again, Cora. You didn’t tell me you love me. What’s up with that?’
I’ve told him a grand total of three times that I love him, and each time was a lie.
I’ve never gotten over Callan. Not even close. At dinner, when he said I would never get married, he was right. I might trick myself into thinking it’s what I need to move forward in my life, but I’d know. I’d know it was the wrong thing to do, because try as I might, I’ve never been able to stop loving Callan. There’s been no room in my heart for anyone else, because that bastard has owned me since day one. Without even trying, and with an entire country separating us, Callan has exerted a powerful and terrifying hold over me that I haven’t been able to shake. Worse still, I haven’t even tried to shake it. I’ve let it rule and ruin me for so long. It’s been self indulgent of me to believe that there’s nothing I could do about it, when in actual fact there’s plenty I could have done.
I could have gone to see him. Gotten some closure. I could have talked about my relationship with him in therapy, instead of refusing point blank every time the subject of him came up. I could have tried to love someone else. Or tried harder at least.
There are other reasons I haven’t been able to let him go, of course. Dark, awful, agonizing reasons that even he doesn’t know about. I kept them from even him, and while he’s sat on the east coast for all these years, stewing on that stupid photograph, I’ve sat on the west coast, stewing on something far worse. I couldn’t tell him back then, though, and there’s sure as hell no way I’ll ever tell him now. What would that accomplish? Absolutely nothing, that’
s what.
I plan on drinking the second bottle of wine and going to sleep. Halfway through the second bottle of wine, I plan on putting the rest in the mini fridge and calling Callan so I can scream at him. Despite how badly I wanted to burn it, I did keep that fancy business card he put under the windshield wiper of the Porsche, so I have his number. I could do it. I have so many things I could yell at him for. The rest of the wine never makes it into the fridge. I polish off the bottle, blearily wondering if I have still have a drinking problem. Back home in LA, I may have a few glasses with dinner, but that’s hardly every night. Maybe once or twice a week, if that. No, I don’t think have a problem with alcohol. I have a problem with Port Royal, and I have a problem with Callan, and with my dead father, and with the ghosts and the memories and the pain waiting for me at every single turn. The alcohol is a temporary coping mechanism, just like making myself throw up on the way to the airport.
Even as I wash the smudged mascara from my face, I know I can’t rely on alcohol or a resurgence in my eating disorder to handle this situation, though. It has to stop. It would be all too easy to lean on those crutches a little too hard, and then where will I be? In rehab? Ben staging an intervention for me, because I can’t eat a single solid meal without forcing myself to throw it back up again? He would hate that. So would I. No. Fuck that. I’ve wrestled through years of therapy. I’ve been in crisis twice already. I don’t ever want to revisit that dark place again. I’m past all of it. I just have to be.
If only Callan had stayed in New York. Dealing with Dad’s arrangements would have been hard, but I think I could have managed it. I probably would have been able to get through the farce of a funeral and the service without breaking down and destroying everything in sight. Maybe. But with him here, it just makes everything ten times harder. I find myself growing angrier and angrier by the second as I realize that him showing up here really was the most selfish, underhanded, cruel thing he could ever have done to me.