by S. M. Soto
I grit my teeth. I should tell him about dinner tonight, but for some reason, I don’t. Hell, some part of me might even enjoy the shocked look that will no doubt cross his face once he sees me at his parents’.
“I’m sorry. Your mother stopped in. I’m heading out right now to grab it.”
He sighs, and I can clearly picture him rubbing his temples. I’ve noticed he does it a lot. Especially when something frustrates him. “Of course, she did. Why am I not surprised?”
“Is there anything else you need me to get for you while I’m out?”
“No, but I do need you to do a transfer of a blueprint.”
I pause. “I, um, I don’t know what that means.”
He sighs heavily. “Christ, I forgot you’re incompetent. It means I need you to take my sketch and transfer it into a blueprint format.”
I swallow thickly, his words scraping against my skin like harsh abrasions. I don’t even bother mentioning that I have no clue how to do that. I’m sure that would only anger him more. On my way out, I’ll have a quick chat with Claire. Hopefully, she can help me out without me running the risk of getting fired.
Just when I think things are looking up, something always happens.
I’m nervous.
My heart is pounding wildly in my chest, and my stomach is churning anxiously as I wait for Rose to pick me up for dinner. I’m placing the blame on the fact that I’ll essentially be having an awkward dinner with my boss, but I know, deep down, that’s not the real reason.
It’s because of Callan.
I’ve been around him in an office setting, and though we speak every day, I never see him outside of work. I’ve been able to put him in this box labeled “professional only.” This crosses that line. Somehow it feels too intimate. This dinner will be like stepping into the past. All the times he’d have dinner with my family and all the times I’d have dinner with his. Countless nights I spent on their couch watching movies with both him and Rose.
That’s not the only issue twisting me up inside. It’s the fact that I’ll have Faith with me—my ex-husband’s daughter. The man Callan hates. There’s been a well-established line between Callan and me regarding our personal lives—bringing Faith into things crosses that figurative line. I don’t know how to process my past colliding with the present. Hell, I don’t know how the night is going to go at all. He can take one look at us sitting there and leave. That’s almost what I’m anticipating.
I run my sweaty hands over my jean-clad thighs. I called Rose right after I got off work and asked if there was a dress code of some sort. All she did was laugh. I’m overthinking everything. It’s just a fucking dinner with family, not tea with the Queen. I need to get my shit together because I’m losing it.
Taking one last glance in the mirror, I inspect my appearance, wondering if I should change. I’m wearing a pair of jeans cropped at the ankles, some Converse, and a loose graphic tee. It’s nothing special, but I look a little more put together than I do on most days. I could’ve remained in my dress from work, but I thought it would be a little too much, considering this is supposed to be a relaxed family dinner.
As soon as I get in the car, and Rosalind takes off, I can feel her gaze at the side of my face. I suddenly wish Damon was here to keep her from asking questions. He had to work late tonight, so he’s driving to dinner himself once he finishes up.
“You’re nervous,” she observes, not even bothering to hide the wonderment in her tone.
I roll my eyes. “How would you know?”
“You keep shaking your damn leg, that’s how. It’s vibrating the whole car.”
“How do you know it’s not just the roads?”
She shakes her head, clearly knowing I’m trying to deflect. “It’s not. What are you even nervous about? It’s just Callan.”
“Exactly!” I blurt. “You know how your brother is. It’s one thing to work for him, but to have dinner with him like old times? It feels wrong. It’s going to be painfully awkward.”
“It’ll be fine, I promise.”
At the very least, I hoped it would.
Luckily, when we get to Rose’s parents’ place, Callan isn’t here yet, which gives me time to get situated with Faith. Caroline and Nicholas fawn over her, and it brings a smile to my face. Her start may not have been the most conventional, but I’m determined to love her fiercely and give her a good life. It helps that she’s surrounded by so many people who love her already.
I get a twinge in my chest when I think about my father. After Mom died, he became a recluse. It was almost as if looking at me was too hard for him. He always did say I was the spitting image of my mother. He reached out after Dean’s death, even came to the funeral, but that was it. There haven’t been any calls. He didn’t have any advice on how to cope with losing a spouse. He wasn’t there when my entire world came crashing down, and I was caring for a baby. Since moving to New York, I haven’t heard a single peep, and I’m not sure what hurts more: the fact that he so obviously doesn’t care about me or the fact that he hasn’t acknowledged I’m now a mother. A single mother.
I try not to let it show just how much the indifference my father suddenly seems to have for me hurts. For the most part, I tuck that pain away, putting it into a box and closing it, opting to pretend it doesn’t bother me.
Shaking thoughts of my father away, I admire the Reeds’ home. It’s beautiful and spacious by New York standards. The brownstone is lovely, just like Rose’s place, but not as ostentatious as Callan’s penthouse. For years, while I was in California with Dean, and they were all here in New York, I wondered what their homes were like, what their lives were like here. Most of the time, they’d fly out to California to visit me. I think they knew how difficult it would be for me to fly out to a city where Callan lives—not that Dean would’ve ever let that happen, anyway.
I’m in the kitchen helping Caroline butter the rolls that are fresh out of the oven when I hear the front door open, then close, and the rumble of deep voices. As much as I try to tamp down the sensation, my stomach flutters recklessly with butterflies. Caroline cuts me a look, and I shoot her a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. It’s meant to be reassuring. Me telling her without words that I’m fine, but I’m guessing by the look on her face, she can see right through it.
I’m not fine.
Thirteen years apart from this man hasn’t changed a damn thing.
She pats me on the shoulder as she walks away, and I trail her, sticking to her shadow. As we round the corner of the kitchen, into the living room, I stumble at the sound of his laugh. Something hot and sticky filters through my chest. It’s the sweetest honey, a nectar dripping from my bones. It’s been so long since I’ve last heard it—the simplicity of Callan’s laugh. It hits me right then and there that the entire time I’ve been working for him, I haven’t heard Cal laugh, not even once. It’s a sobering realization and such a sad thought. I didn’t realize until now how much I missed it, missed the old him.
My heart threatens to rip out of my chest when I finally spot Callan. He’s dressed in the same suit as earlier, a three-piece bespoke Armani. Only now, he’s lost the jacket, leaving him in a black button-down that hugs the contours of his broad chest. He has the sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms, and my eyes are drawn there. The veins protrude against his tan skin, and I have the urge to trace my fingers across the light dusting of hair there.
“How are you going to give your employees shit about being late when you can’t even manage to get to a family dinner on time?” Rosalind chides as she steps into the foyer, cradling Faith in her arms. My heart jumps into my throat when Callan spots his sister with the baby. His brows pull in, something flashing across his face. Slowly, his gaze travels across the room, almost like he’s searching for something—or someone. When his gaze clashes with mine, a chill travels down my spine. Steel drums pound in my chest, and flutters explode in my belly. It feels like electrons are flowing through my veins. It feels lik
e magic, the ever-present electricity. I work a thick swallow, and I watch with rapt attention as the muscle along his prominent jaw jumps almost angrily.
His face shudders. “What’s she doing here?”
My face heats with embarrassment. I glance at Rose for help, and she just shoots a scowl at her brother.
“Don’t be rude, Callan,” Caroline berates, smacking her son on the back of his head.
Callan’s gaze lingers on me a bit longer than it ever has, but then he glances away, looking back at his sister. He glances down at Faith for a beat before looking away. It was only a second, but it was enough that I feel it settle in my chest, prompting a tsunami of emotions to slam into me.
“You know, you could try being on time, Cal. The universe doesn’t revolve around you. And don’t you think you’ve been enough of a dick to her as it is?”
He sends Rosalind a dry look. “I’m not being paid to be here on time. What I do with my employees is my business.”
I share a look at Rose, and she rolls her eyes. “Such an ass.”
Excusing himself, Callan brushes past everyone, heading toward the dining room. Rose bumps my hip lightly. “Ignore him. He’s always in a bad mood.”
My stomach sours at the thought of me being the cause of his bad mood. “I told you this wasn’t a good idea.”
“Fuck him. You’re my sister.” She reaches out, squeezing my hand in hers. “If he can’t stop being a dick for five seconds, that’s his problem.”
I try to ignore the weight of Callan’s glare throughout the rest of dinner, but it’s an impossible feat. If looks could kill, I would’ve dropped dead long ago. Especially when Faith starts to lose her baby cool. Her piercing cry reverberates around the kitchen. It’s a staccato no one wants to hear. I try everything from a diaper change, to feeding, to even rocking her in my arms, but nothing works.
I can practically feel Callan’s animosity radiating around us. It travels across the kitchen table and grips my lungs in a vise.
“Here, let me help you, sweetie,” Caroline offers.
I brush her off, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “It’s fine. You finish eating.”
Hurrying away from the table, I clutch Faith to my chest, trying to comfort her in the living room, away from where everyone is eating dinner. I can only hope the noise doesn’t travel too easily. My heart is pounding, my anxiety at an all-time high as I work to calm her down. Just like I do every night when I can’t get her to stop crying, I lay her in my arms and gently swing, humming the tune of “Isn’t She Lovely.” It doesn’t take long for her cries to silence, and she’s staring up at me curiously. Slowly, her little eyes flutter closed, and her breathing begins to even out.
When she goes slack in my arms, I blow out a tired breath. Carefully, I make my way back into the kitchen. Part of me wants to stay cooped up in the living room with Faith until Callan goes home, but as much as I’d like to do that, my stomach is growling loudly, and there’s no way I’m going to miss out on dinner just to avoid Callan Reed.
As soon as I step back into the dining room, everyone stops eating and glances up. I pause for a beat, trying to figure out how I’ll finish eating while I hold Faith. The last thing I want to do is disturb her. I guess I didn’t quite think this through.
Caroline rushes out of her chair, fawning over Faith. “Hand her over, and you finish eating. Everyone is just about done.”
Before I can argue, she goes about lifting Faith from my arms and cradles her. I hold my breath, waiting for her to wake up screaming, but thankfully, she only stirs for a few seconds before falling back asleep.
Taking my seat, I resume eating, smiling when I see Rose, Damon, and Nicholas eyeing Faith with baby fever. Everyone except Callan. Hell, it’s like he’s purposely trying not to look at her. At either of us. I don’t know why, but that bothers me much more than it should.
“So, Daisy. How do you like working with Callan?” Damon asks, completely unaware of our past and just how shitty things have been between us.
My eyes widen, and I nearly choke on the food in my mouth, completely speechless. For once, I have nothing nice to say when it comes to working for Callan. I don’t exactly want to spew all of this in front of his parents. He is their beloved son, after all. By my silence, I can tell everyone is reading between the lines, filling in everything I’m not saying.
“She doesn’t work with me. She works for me.” His tone is dry and bored. It grates on my nerves. I tighten my grip around the fork and squeeze until I feel a slight sting in my palm.
My nostrils flare. The fucking asshole. “It’s…it’s fine. He’s great at what he does.”
An awkward silence descends. Seems like the majority of dinner has been spent this way. They all try to keep the conversation flowing amicably among the four of them, but it’s like Callan doesn’t want that. He nips it in the bud every time—it’s almost like he wants this dinner to be awkward.
I glance at Rose and have to stifle my laugh at the glare she’s shooting at the side of her fiancé’s head. They whisper to each other in hushed tones, and Damon has the decency to shoot me an apologetic smile.
“Do you still paint?” Nicholas asks, trying to change the subject. Somehow, this question is almost worse than talking about what it’s like to work for Callan.
When we were younger, I loved to paint. I’ve never been much of a drawer or even half as talented as Callan. But that was the one thing we bonded over—my ability to paint anything that came to mind, and him, being skilled enough to create a masterpiece using only his lithe fingers.
I clear my throat, trying to ignore the sudden pang in my chest. It doesn’t escape my notice that once I started to get serious with Dean, my love for painting went away. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t appreciate it. He admitted that he didn’t have a creative bone in his body. But instead of being a good partner and praising me, he made me feel like it was a useless hobby. He made me feel like my art, my form of expression, wasn’t important. I guess over time, I let myself believe that was true. That maybe my likes and dislikes didn’t matter. That maybe my paintings were stupid—a waste of my time.
“I haven’t painted in years.” I glance down at the table, unable to look Nicholas in the eye. “I probably wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s not like I have time for it, anyway, so I guess it really doesn’t matter.”
Caroline and Nicholas share a look with each other. A silent conversation passes between them. I can take a wild guess what it’s about—them feeling sorry for me. They recover quickly, and Nicholas smiles at me, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sure that’s not true. You were talented. Gifts like that just don’t disappear.”
I can feel his gaze on me. I don’t need to look to confirm. I know it by the way my body reacts. I can feel the weight of his stare. It prompts the hairs at my nape to stand at attention. His gaze has always been able to elicit such extreme reactions out of me. So much so, it causes heat to rise to my cheeks. Partly in shame, partly embarrassed by the onslaught of attention.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
An awkward silence stretches for a long beat of time. Suddenly feeling like an intruder, I excuse myself to the bathroom to gather my wits, knowing Faith is in good hands out there with Caroline. I keep getting bombarded with flashes of the past—memories of Callan and me when we were friends, then when he hated me, but most of all, I can’t stop thinking about Dean. He’s gone, but it still feels like he’s sitting there next to me, telling me what a fool I am for lusting after a man who doesn’t want me—a man who has been nothing but an asshole to me for most of my life.
Sometimes, it feels like my grief is at war with my pain. I’d gotten so used to hearing Dean’s remarks for every little thing throughout our marriage, I almost expect to hear them now in my everyday life. When I don’t, it reminds me that he’s gone. Then I remember what he did—what he and Skylar did—and I roll through the motions, feeling the pain all over again.
&nb
sp; The pain of being betrayed by someone I loved.
And though our love may not have burned like the fiercest kind, it was still love to me.
The truth still tore me down and ripped me to shreds when I found out.
I heave a deep, tired sigh. My mind keeps pushing forward everything I’ve purposely tried to suppress. But I can’t seem to escape my past with Callan.
“What’re you working on?”
I startle at the sound of Callan’s voice. Resting my paint-splattered hand over my chest, I work to calm my breathing.
“Geez. You scared me. What are you doing here? I thought you left with Rose and your parents?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going this year.”
I quirk a brow. “So they’re just going to let you stay home alone?”
Callan rolls his eyes. “No. My grandparents are here.”
I have to stifle my laughter. He doesn’t seem happy that his parents still think he needs a babysitter. Without my permission, he steps farther into the guest room, the space my parents set up for me so I can paint in peace.
“Looks good.”
I swallow and glance back at the piece I’m working on. It’s a watercolor painting of daisies in a sea of beautiful multicolored flowers. It’s me in a sea of people. Unseen. Hidden.
“It’s…whatever. I was just messing around.”
His brows pull in. “Why are the daisies in the middle?”
He glances back at me as he asks the question, but I get the sense he already knows the answer. Sometimes, it feels as if Callan knows me better than I know myself. As frustrating as it is, there’s also comfort I find in that.
“I was just going to toss it. Skylar said it was a piece of shit, and well, now that I’m looking at it, she’s not wrong.”
Callan presses his lips together, ignoring that.
“If that’s just a whatever painting, I’d like to see what you can do if you really try. Because that? It’s better than the shit rich people pay for.”
I roll my eyes at him playfully, silently basking in his praise.