by T. E. Black
"I think I do, honey."
Mac and I stopped at a local home improvement store so I could get a pot and some supplies to plant my calla lily. He said I could keep it at his house since I’d be spending a lot of time there with him anyway. With the weather getting cooler since October was rolling in, Mac suggested making it a house plant and keeping it near a window so it could still get sun.
After I re-planted it at Mac’s apartment, I turned to Nook who was staring at it with her mouth watering.
"You better not eat this. I will personally kick you out of the bed. You will stay on the couch," I say to her.
Her ears perk up as she lies down, her small eyes registering what I'm telling her. In that moment, we make a silent agreement she is to go nowhere near it.
My phone rings in my purse.
It’s Sierra.
“Hey.”
"Hey to you too!" she replies, her usual bubbly voice.
I walk around to the kitchen island, taking a seat at it.
"What's up?"
"Hey Callie!" Evan yells in the background.
I laugh at him, saying hi back. Sierra lets out a small giggle, telling me she's putting me on speakerphone.
"I have bad news," she confesses.
My mind races with wonder. What could’ve possibly happened? I try to rack my brain as to what her news could be, but I come up with nothing.
"Evan and I are kicking you out of the apartment."
What the hell?
"Are you serious?" I ask her.
She lets out a tiny laugh as Evan answers for her.
"Yeah, there's not going to be any room for you when the baby comes. We need a nursery, which we have in the extra room, but your room needs to be the playroom."
My mouth falls open as I take in the news.
Sierra is pregnant. I squeal loudly, jumping up and down in Mac’s kitchen.
"Oh my God! That's amazing you guys! I’m so happy for you! When are you due?"
Sierra chimes in.
"It's too early to know for sure, but they're predicting sometime in May." I talk about names and clothes and all things baby when I realize.
"Where am I going to stay?"
She lets out a laugh, continuing.
"Well, Mac has graciously offered to take you in."
I chuckle at the phone, looking around to see Mac leaning against the door frame, dangling a house key from his fingers.
"Is that right?" I say to Sierra, still watching him.
"Yep!"
"Well, I’ll come pack up my stuff tomorrow, and tell Evan there's no way he's getting out of it. He’s carrying every one of my shoe boxes."
She agrees, telling me she'll see me tomorrow. I hang up, spinning around to face Mac. He closes the distance between us, making himself comfortable between my legs as I sit on the barstool. I cross my arms over my chest, giving him a curious glance.
"So when did you know about Sierra? Before or after you suggested me keeping my plant here?" I ask.
He gives me an innocent shrug.
"I might have known before. Evan might have called me extremely excited that he was going to have a kid."
I let out a laugh and snatch the key from his hand.
"Well, it looks like you're going to have to make room for me in your closet."
I study the key to my new apartment, noticing the name of the hardware store we were just at before we got home.
"How did you sneak off and get this made?"
He really didn't leave my side, unless his phone rang, which I assume Evan was calling him.
"Right after Evan called. It takes two minutes to get a key made, babe. You were so interested in your planting stuff, you didn't even notice."
I shake my head at him, wrapping my arms around his midsection.
"Thank you," I tell him wholeheartedly.
He kisses the crown of my head like always and picks me up, tossing me over his shoulder like I've come to expect from him.
"Are you ever going to let me walk?" I yell, beating on his back.
"Not likely babe, but I figure I need to make this official, carrying you over the threshold and all."
I let out a loud laugh at him, correcting him.
"People only do that when they get married Mac!"
He smacks my ass hard, getting a little yelp out of me.
"I'm not very good at following rules, Callie."
He tosses me on his bed. Correction, our bed. I arch my brow at him, crooking my finger in a come here motion. He crawls over me like he's stalking prey. I take his face in my hands and he hovers over me, crashing our lips together. How quickly things have changed.
The colder weather has set in over the past couple months. It's been snowing buckets here, and while most people are complaining, I fucking love it. I love being stranded with Callie, just the two of us. Let's just say we find things to do to keep ourselves busy.
Callie and I have become inseparable. I can't stop the love my heart swells with every morning I wake up with her in my arms. She has permanently branded me in her own way. I wouldn't trade it for the world.
I'll never forget the night we cuddled up on the couch and Callie made my heart grow three sizes bigger.
"Mac?" she asks, tracing the outline of the lotus tattoo on my wrist.
"What's up baby?"
"You never call me Red anymore. Why?" she asks, focusing on my tattoo.
I smile to myself at her lack of confidence. I know she always wondered why I stopped using that nickname, but she never asked. Until now.
I pull away from her, lifting her chin gently so she faces me dead on as I explain.
"Because, when you were Red, you weren't mine. And now, you are mine, Callie. I don't call you Red because it reminds me of a time where I thought I'd never have you to myself. I call you Callie now because it's a beautiful name, and it’s the name I hope to get tattooed over my heart one day, baby."
She was speechless in that moment. I kissed away every single tear that fell from her eyes. She was too damn beautiful to cry, and she's still too fucking beautiful now. She's come a long way from the sad girl I first met, and I've seen it happen without her even realizing it. She slowly stopped writing her entries in the phone, and although I said nothing about it to her, I was so fucking happy she did. Her not needing that meant I was enough for her. I was enough for her to be happy, and damn it all to hell if that wasn't the best feeling in the entire world.
Callie is almost done with her first semester at the university. It’s November, and winter break means I'll get her all to myself for a while before having to go back to reality. She's become close with the girl from the tattoo shop, Shay. They hang out a lot. Shay has even been over to our apartment a few of times. She brought her daughter, Abigail, over twice and that little girl is the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen. Her blonde hair is always set in pigtails. It's fucking adorable. She's so small I’m afraid I'll break her when I let her climb me with her tiny little feet.
Trent has given me nothing but shit for letting Callie and Shay hang out, but I told him to keep his mouth shut. With Sierra being pregnant, she's not really around for Callie as much, and Callie needs someone in her life besides me. Even though I'd love to keep her to myself, there's only so much girly shit I can handle talking about. That's where Shay comes in.
From what Callie told me, Shay and Trent hooked up after the night at the bar when he first went down his Shay-induced warpath. I kinda figured something was up when they were both giving each other shit the day Callie got her tattoo.
Callie made me swear I wouldn’t say anything to Trent about Shay confiding in her, and I didn't. It's not my place and it's not my business. What I found interesting was when Trent was bitching about her at the bar one night and said after they hooked up, she told him she had a kid, and they couldn't do it again. Trent's head probably blew off his shoulders when he heard that. He rarely cares, but the way he's been bitching about this chick is definitely s
omething for the record books.
I light a smoke, leaning back against the work bench at the garage. I had to come down today and get some shit done on a customer's car which meant leaving Callie at home. My phone rings and I fish it out of my jeans pocket, checking the screen.
Unknown Caller flashes on the screen for what has to be the thousandth time this week. I haven't answered because whoever it fucking is doesn't leave a message which leads me to believe it isn't important.
I silence it, setting it on the work bench, continuing to smoke my cigarette. Life has been fucking good. Everything is the way it should be. I got my shop doing well, my girl, and my dog. I'm even making progress on my mustang. She's almost done and will be rocking and rolling by the spring, just in time for Callie and me to take her for a spin.
Can't get much better than this.
My voicemail tone dings from my phone. About fucking time they left a message. I swear if this is some telemarketer, I will lose my shit, but not before filing a harassment charge for calling my personal phone five times a day.
I click the screen, opening the voicemail where it prompts me to type in my password.
You have one new message.
I wait for the message to start, hearing the female voice at the other end.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
I grab the closest thing, which is a crow bar, throwing it as hard as I possibly can in whatever direction it will fly. It flies right into my Mustang, going right through the windshield.
Well, if this isn't a fucking sign of the shit storm that is blowing over my head then I don’t know what the fuck is.
I let out a roar, grabbing the work bench and flipping it on its side. Tools scatter across the concrete floor, causing noise to fill the quiet garage.
I stare at my phone, listening to the message again. Over and over. I sit there for what feels like hours, listening to the voice is like nails on a chalkboard right now.
The voice which will ruin everything for me.
That will destroy every fucking thing in my life I want, and it's all because of one moment of weakness. One fucking moment where I wish I had kept my dick in my pants.
One fucking moment I'd kill to take back.
I pull the phone from my ear, staring at it with pure hatred. I take it, smashing it off of the floor as hard as I can, watching it shatters into a million fucking pieces at my feet.
I scoff at the sight. It's broken just like Callie will be when she finds out what I've done to her. What I've done to us. She will leave me, taking my heart with her as she walks out the front door of our happy little life.
Motherfucker.
Nanook and I walk in from our daily stroll. I unhook her, hanging her leash up on the coat rack where our jackets hang. I place my keys on the end table near the door, seeing the apartment just the way I left it. One standing lamp lights up the front room just enough so you can see where you're going. I mainly do this so when Nook is home by herself and I come home, I don't trip over her crazy ass. It's happened, and it isn't a walk in the park. The dog is constantly under my feet wherever I turn.
Mac isn't home yet, so I assume he got caught up in his work. He and Trent have been swimming in projects since the winter chill has everyone's cars acting up. It's good for business, but bad for me because if I want to see my man before eight o’clock at night, I have to find my way to the garage and distract him long enough to give me a piece of himself.
Not that it takes much to distract him.
He ends up tossing down his tools, and lavishing me with attention on the hood of whatever car is closest. We even made the christening of his Mustang official.
I love that freaking car.
I feel Nook grabbing my pant legs, giving it a tug toward the living room. I know what she wants without even asking. She and I have started our own little routine of vegging on the couch and watching Animal Planet until Mac comes home.
I pull at my pant leg, making her release it.
"All right you loon! Give me two minutes, and then I'll come cuddle with you." I scratch behind her ears.
She gives me a playful nudge, sprinting across the room to retrieve her stuffed moose. Mac never gave her toys with squeakers in them because he said she would rip them apart, but since I moved in, Nook now has an abundance of squeaky toys. She loves them. I told Mac maybe if she had toys to play with then she wouldn't chew every pair of shoes I own. I swear, I have only one of each shoe because of her. She has this weird thing where she eats right shoes. How she even knows which is the right one is beyond me. Mac has replaced every pair of my shoes kindly. Thank God for that. It took a long time to obtain a collection as awesome as mine, and I died a little inside every time I found one scattered in the apartment.
The only pair Mac gave her hell about was my pink Chuck Taylor’s. He kept yelling at Nanook while he searched online for a new pair. If I remember correctly, his words went something like this:
"Nanook, what the hell? You had to eat that pair? She has a million fucking pairs in the closet, and you choose the one pair which is the reason she's even your mom now! What the fuck?"
I swear I didn't stop laughing when I heard those words come out of his mouth. Apparently, my ratty Chuck Taylor’s were the reason my amazing boyfriend fell in love with me.
Silly me, here I thought it was my personality, my boobs or ass. Something normal, not a ratty pair of sneakers.
He even patched the eaten shoe back together using gorilla glue, a needle, and thread. It didn’t look the best, and it definitely wasn't wearable, but the thought he put into fixing them made me speechless.
My pink converse now sit on the mantle of the fireplace in the living room, right next to a picture of the three of us when he took me to park for the first time. Mac had stopped a stranger, asking him to take a picture of his family: Mac, Nook, and me. A family.
That was even before he asked me to move in with him. I knew it would happen eventually. I just didn't expect it to be so soon, but I can’t complain because I love living with him and Nook.
I make myself comfortable on the couch, flipping the TV on and turning on Nook's favorite channel. She runs from the kitchen full force, wiping out as she rounds the corner too quickly. Hardwood floors are not her friend. I laugh at her as she tries to regain her balance. She admits defeat, taking her time to walk in the living room. I snuggle up with her, flipping through my phone, landing on Mac's name. I send him a text I’m willing to bet will have his ass home in fifteen minutes.
While you’re at work getting cars ready for their owners… I’m at home, in our bed… getting myself ready for my owner. Hurry home before you miss your chance to rev my engine, stud. Love you!
I hit send, smiling to myself. He'll never be able to resist that. Mac's weakness, the only way he'll put down his drill, is when I text him dirty things. It's kind of become our thing over the past few months.
I feel my phone vibrating in my hand, smiling to myself. I figure Mac is doing ninety to get home, and calling to tell me I better be naked in his bed, and not kidding.
I look down, seeing Ryleigh's name flashing across the screen. I get disappointed when I see it's not Mac, but I answer anyway.
"Hey Ryleigh. What's up?"
There's mumbling in the background followed by Ryleigh yelling at someone to shut up.
"I'm bringing your drunken boyfriend home to you, that's what's up, and he weighs a fuckin' ton! What do you feed this schmuck, Callie? He doesn't look heavy, but I can assure ya, he fuckin' is!" She grumbles, sounding flustered.
Why the hell would Mac be drinking? He said he was working at the garage. What the fuck is going on? I feel my blood pressure shoot through the roof while I answer her.
"Why the hell was he at the bar? He was supposed to be working," I state, my clipped tone echoing like I'm on speakerphone right now.
I hear Mac mumbling how sorry he is in the background, and I feel my heart drop into the pit of my stomach. My first
thoughts are he cheated on me. He lied about where he was going and he got too drunk to drive home. I will kill the bitch who thought she could touch my man without me finding out, but not before killing him, too.
Ryleigh lets out a long sigh, her tone getting softer.
"Everything is okay. I'll explain everything when I get to ya house, but I'm going to need a ride back to the bar. I'm still on the clock."
"Okay," I snap.
“Guys stop with the shit already! I swear, I’ll boot ya asses out so fast ya heads will spin." I glare at the two college guys who think it's a good idea to wrestle each other in a small bar full of people.
The one guy makes a remark about my tits and what he'd like to do to them. Rolling my eyes, I throw him the finger, counting over my tips for the night so far. I'm fifty bucks richer because men think if they tip me good enough, I'll let them take me home.
Fat chance boys.
I shove my tips in my bra, keeping them safe from thieving hands. No one's gonna get it in there. My tits are like a lock box. The only way you're getting near them is if you have the key, and the only person who has the key is my girlfriend Susan.
"Ry, round ‘em up. The good shit," I hear in front of me.
I look up seeing Mac who looks like he's been through hell and back. His eyes have bags under them, which normally I would assume is from the person crying, but this jackass doesn't cry. He's a good guy, and I love him like a brother, but he's as tough as stone. Nothing breaks him. He may need advice from time to time, but let’s face it; everyone does at some point in their lives.
"What's the occasion?" I say, letting out a small laugh.
I grab a shot glass and a bottle of his favorite bad mood curing drink. Jameson.
Mac's face stays mute, showing no emotion at all, and it scares the hell out of me. Normally, bad mood or not, his emotions write themselves across his face, but not tonight.
I pour him a shot, leaving the bottle on the bar since he looks like he’s gonna need it.