by Erika Kelly
“Many factors go into such a decision,” Mrs. Reyes said. “And we had outstanding applicants this year.”
Julian shook his head. “You can’t think the MoCA would choose you after that sex tape went viral.”
Megan had nailed it, hadn’t she? “It wasn’t a sex tape, Julian. It was a kiss.”
“And how many guys would you kiss on tables in the MoCA?” he said in a harsh whisper.
“Grab me a place setting, would you, darling?” A big white leather bag landed on the table next to Mrs. Reyes, rattling the silverware. Hilda Morrison, in a hot pink suit, plopped into the last available chair and grabbed the napkin folded into the shape of a swan. Snapping it open, she patted the perspiration off her forehead. “It’s hotter ‘n a firecracker lit at both ends.”
Callie smiled because the old woman didn’t actually talk like that, but the way Julian and his mother stiffened had the desired effect.
Hilda pulled off her hot pink straw hat and fanned herself with it, the large red flower fluttering in the breeze. She lifted a finger to a passing waiter. Before he even arrived at the table, Hilda said, “You wanna grab me a martini? Bombay Sapphire, up, and real dirty.” She added a little growl to the real.
The waiter bit back a smile, nodded, and headed for the bar. Hilda frequented the Four Seasons, so everyone knew her.
“So.” Hilda set her arms on the table. “Did I just hear you tell my protogée I don’t have a say in choosing the candidate for the fellowship I sponsor?”
“While we are deeply appreciative of your generosity all these years,” Mrs. Reyes said in a patronizing tone. “I’m afraid that, no, you don’t have a say in the selection process.”
Hilda tugged on the cuff of her sleeve until it peeked out of the blazer. “I had a nice chat with the secretary when I stopped by the office yesterday. She says Callie’s application was pulled before anyone on the board reviewed it. That true? Or is she giving me a load of bullshit?”
Mrs. Reyes tilted her chin. “We had an unusual number of highly qualified applicants, forcing us to screen some of the candidates. Unfortunately, Calliope didn’t make it to the next level. Going around our selection process is not going to give her the result she’s looking for.”
“Well, Jackie.” And just like that the grand dame of New York society dropped the persona and unleashed a cold smile. “Let’s get something clear. You’re trying to subvert a process designed to bring the best and brightest into the arts for a personal vendetta. So, regardless of formal agreements, Calliope will get the fellowship or I’ll cease sponsoring it.”
In two years of knowing the woman, Callie had never seen Mrs. Reyes unnerved. But the woman took a sip of her ice water before returning both hands under the table. “I’m simply a board member. One of eight. And after a lengthy meeting we concluded that while it would be unfortunate to lose this long-term fellowship, the process must be respected. Imagine if all our sponsors stepped in and undermined the process. Nothing would get done.”
“You’re a little slow on the uptake, Jackie, so I’ll put it to you in a way you’ll understand. If you fuck with me on this, I’ll have you removed from the board of trustees of the MoCA, the New York City Ballet, the Requiem Dance Troupe, and the New York City Opera.” Hilda twisted around towards the bar. “Now, where’s my damn martini?”
New York at the end of August was hot as a bonfire. The cab didn’t have air conditioning, so warm, humid air blasted in through the open windows. Cars honked, the radio played news in Spanish, but all Fin could think about was Callie.
He reread her email.
Dear Fin,
I love you. I do. I will always love you. I didn’t handle our breakup well last time, but I’m determined to do it right this time.
A fresh batch of chills skittered across his skin. He reread the last line, looking for a different interpretation. But, no. She’d broken up with him. He drew in a shaky breath.
Look, we tried as kids and failed. We tried again as adults and…failed. Let’s just call it, okay? We need to move on or we’ll be stuck in this pattern forever. And neither of us wants that.
Sign your contract. Make your films. You’re the best in the world at what you do, so do it. I’m going to do my fellowship and see where it leads.
I’m writing this because I need you to let me go. If you come to New York and fight for me, you’re only going to cause me more pain. We’ve had more than enough of that.
I love you enough to let you go. Do the same for me.
Bullshit. He logged out of his email account and checked to see how far they’d gotten up Park Avenue. 55th. Two more blocks to go. He’d do better on foot. “This is great, right here.”
In the rearview mirror, the driver’s eyebrows rose questioningly.
“Yes. Let me out here, please.”
At the next traffic light, Fin checked the meter and handed the man a twenty. “Keep the change.” And then he took off, dodging through heavy pedestrian traffic.
Love you enough to let you go? She was out of her mind if she thought for one second he’d let her go. She didn’t know he’d finally figured his shit out, which meant he’d never mess up again. He needed to tell her. Right now.
When Fin reached the hotel, he went straight for the reception desk, but goosebumps sprung out on his arms and the back of his neck tingled. He turned to see Callie laughing as she came out of the restaurant with an older woman wearing a bright pink hat.
Her laughter faded as she turned sharply, her gaze landing unerringly on him.
Elation at seeing her flatlined when she looked anything but happy to see him. She held up a finger to the woman he assumed was Hilda and strode briskly across the lobby.
“What are you doing here?” Callie said.
Calliope. That uptight tone twisted through his guts like a corkscrew. “You look beautiful.” He lifted a lock of her dark hair. She’d bleached the ends white. “Wild thing.”
“Fin, I asked you not to come here.”
“Yeah, I know what you said. I read every word, and it’s all bullshit. We’re not done. We’re never going to be done.” He stepped closer. “I figured it out, everything you’ve been trying to tell me. And I’m never going to let you down again.”
“I’m with Hilda right now, and I will absolutely not have this conversation with you.”
“I know. I’ll just head to up our room till you’re done. Take your time. I’m good. I’ll just—”
“No.” Her features hardened. “I meant everything I said in that email. You need to go home. You don’t belong in New York, and we both know that. I never should have gone along with this stupid plan.” And then she drew in a deep breath and softened. “Please, Fin, don’t make this harder for us than it has to be. Sign the contract. Get on with your life.”
“Not until you hear me out. That’s why I didn’t go to Chile, because I finally got it. They’ll never respect what I do until I respect it. I show them my priorities every time I choose helping them over what’s happening in my own life.”
She sucked in a breath, pressing her lips together. “I did it again. I found the hotel. I got the apartment.” She closed her eyes. “I printed out your boarding pass.” When she opened them, she had a look of steely resolve. “We did have something important going on, Fin. It’s just that it wasn’t important to you.” She glanced back at her companion. “Now, listen, Hilda Morrison never asserts her authority in this city, but she did it for me. So, thanks to her, I get to live my dream, and I’m not going to let her down by being distracted by our drama. Let me focus on building this life I’ve worked so hard for. And, honestly, Fin? You should be doing the same thing.” She stepped closer to him. “You say you get it, but you don’t. Not really. I don’t play second fiddle to your career. To something that matters deeply to you. I play second fiddle to your brothers. Where are you in all that?”
She spun around, the white tips of her hair arcing out as she headed back to Hilda, leaving him
awash in her sweet, distinctive scent.
Chapter Twenty
Pen in hand, Fin stared at the contract. He should sign it, but…he liked his own crew. Bram knew him, could anticipate his moves, so he didn’t really want a new production team.
Maybe he’d check with him, see if he wanted to work for Braverman.
His phone buzzed, and he picked it up so fast it flew out of his hands. Callie?
But, no, it was Nolan. “What’s up, man?”
“You were right.” His friend sounded like a skeptical kid who’d just tugged Santa’s beard and found it was real.
“Yeah? About what?”
Marcella bustled into the kitchen, grabbing a pot holder and opening the oven door. The smell of roasted sweet potato filled the air.
“I thought for sure you were just wasting my time. But I did it. I kept the log, and it’s like you said. I didn’t even realize the shit I was doing.”
“Like what?”
“I thought I was just having an occasional beer, but we’ve had people out to the house all summer. Romer and Gwen spent a long weekend, and Janey’s folks came out for a week. So between the food and parties, I’ve been drinking a lot more than I thought.”
“Yeah, that’s how it goes,” Fin said.
“Janey’s been cooking for everybody, so I’ve snuck a few pancakes, pasta, cookies and shit. It adds up. So, yeah, man, you’re right.”
“Good. That means it’s an easy fix.”
“You gonna look at my film now?”
“In a month. Lay off the shit, keep training, and then send me your footage.”
“Damn. Wish I’d listened to you months ago.”
“You’ve got plenty of time before the season starts. You’re good.” After he disconnected the call, he shook his head. Now Nolan got why he and his brothers were so disciplined.
Marcella pulled the sweet potatoes out of the oven. “How is your skin not orange?”
He stared at his phone, willing it to buzz. If Callie wanted to do a better job breaking up with him this time, then she’d won the gold. He hadn’t heard from her since she’d left the hotel with Hilda yesterday.
How did he prove to her that he was done putting his brothers first? That he didn’t need to go chasing their respect because he already had it?
What really struck him was that if his brothers hadn’t been so influenced by their competitive Dad, they’d all be backcountry boarders just like Fin. It was in their blood to ride free. But that damn trophy room. He ought to just go in there and rip everything off the shelves. Turn it into a weight room.
A hand waved in front of his face. “Hello?” Fingers snapped.
He focused on Marcella. “What?”
“I asked you if I can at least make a sweet potato pie. You look like you could use the sugar rush right now.”
“I don’t care.”
Her hip popped, and she gave him a questioning look. “Fin Bowie doesn’t care if I serve pie for dinner?” She smacked the side of his head. “What’s the matter with you?”
He’d just gotten in a few hours ago. No one knew what had happened. “Callie broke up with me.”
“What happened?”
“I…” He didn’t want to rehash it. “Whatever. It’s done. I’ve lost her.”
She flicked her kitchen towel at this chest. “Okay, drama queen. Skip the theatrics and spit it out. Tell me what happened.”
“When I changed my ticket at the last minute to go with Will to Chile, she dumped me. I didn’t think she’d care, since she didn’t have anything important going on.”
Marcella cringed.
“No, I mean like an event.”
Marcella held his gaze, telepathing her message that he was too stupid for words.
“Yeah, I know. I get it. They need my help, and I drop everything. I get it now. And I get that Callie thinks she can’t count on me.”
“She thinks she can’t count on you, huh?”
He straightened. “No, you’re right. She can’t count on me. But I’m not going to do it again, and I don’t know how to prove that to her if she’s not talking to me.”
“She doesn’t want to hear your words.”
“Yeah, I know that.”
“She wants action.”
Fin set the pen down, all his senses narrowing to the answers he saw in her eyes.
She picked up his contract. “How do you feel when you look at this?”
“It’s cool. Braverman only offers contracts to the best.”
“Uh huh. So you feel proud that he chose you?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re going to sign this contract because it makes you feel like a badass? Like it legitimizes what you do?”
An uneasy feeling came over him. “I guess so.” But the urgency to get Callie back—be the man she needed him to be—pressed him to think harder, go deeper. “Yes. That’s why.”
“Because your brothers will finally approve of what you do? Be a little envious?”
His muscles clenched, releasing a torrent of fear. Was he still not getting it?
What could Marcella and Callie see about him that he couldn’t? “Yes.”
“Son…”
Emotion slammed him, like a punch to the chest, and he had to look away. His mom had left when he was six, so he didn’t have a lot of memories of her. She’d shouted at them a lot, railed to their dad about them, but mostly she’d been gone. Either out of town because she hated the “whole cowboy scene” or out with her friends. Her attempt to “civilize” them in New York had ended disastrously when they’d crashed through the ice in Central Park’s Pond. They’d learned the hard way that it didn’t get quite as cold in New York as in Wyoming.
When they’d come home, Marcella had been waiting for them. From day one, she’d asserted herself in their lives, never hanging in the background. She’d been hired to cook and clean, but she’d been so much more.
Fin loved her. But in all seventeen years of knowing her, she’d never called him her son.
She brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Sweetheart, you know what makes you special? What makes you stand out from your brothers?”
He waited, because other than the fact he was a freerider and loved Callie, he didn’t have a clue.
“Your bravery.”
Fin barked out laugh. “Have you seen the monsters Gray rides?” His brother didn’t just surf—he was a big wave surfer.
She gently tapped his chest. “I’m talking about here. Your brothers have never risked their hearts, but you? As you boys like to say, you go balls-out. And that makes you the bravest of them all.”
He’d never thought of it that way, but before he could let the words sink in, connect them to winning Callie back, Marcella continued. “You’re a special man, Fin, and Callie knows that. I have no doubt she wants you as much as you want her, but she’s out there making her dreams come true. She knows what she wants and she’s going to get it. So, if you want her, then you come to her as a man. Not the boy who’s driving himself nuts trying to be what everyone else needs him to be.”
“That’s what I’m doing. That’s why I didn’t go with Will.”
“No, you didn’t go with Will because you’re done fighting to be included.” She drew in a breath. “What do you want to do with your life?”
“What I’m doing now. Freeriding.”
“Yes, that’s something you enjoy. But what do you do? Every day? What’s your life’s work?”
Something tugged inside his mind—like a song he wanted desperately to recall or a smell he couldn’t quite place but that connected with a powerful memory.
“What articles do you read?” she continued. “What thoughts go through your head as you’re brushing your teeth or running the trails? What consumes you?”
He read articles on nutrition. He reviewed footage coaches and friends sent him. He looked at training equipment, evaluating its merits.
He thought of Nolan. Of Will.
I rely on you because no one else has your vision, your knowledge, your intuitive understanding of our sport.
“I train.” And the idea that he’d become a trainer was an insult. “You want me to work at some gym? Be a trainer?”
Snatching the towel off the counter, she actually rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you ten seconds to Bowie-size that idea.”
Warmth spread across his body, and a deep sense of satisfaction filled him.
If he took that damn trophy room out of the picture, eliminated his need to impress his brothers, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life. What he should be doing.
And while it didn’t involve Callie right now, it would most definitely make him the man he was meant to be. He’d already waited six years for her; if he needed to wait ten more, he’d do it. As long as it took, because there would never be anyone else for him.
Only her.
Amidst the hum of conversation and the wait staff delivering canapés and champagne on silver trays, Callie stood in the lobby of the MoCA for the welcome party for this year’s fellows.
Her phone pinged again, and she discreetly checked the message.
What do you want me to do with it? Stan had accepted delivery of one half of a brown corduroy couch, and since they weren’t expanding the museum, he wasn’t sure if they should still take donations.
Her heart gave a fierce tug. She’d been gone three weeks, and her exhibition hadn’t slowed down one bit. In fact, donations kept pouring in, and they had a wait list for their classes. She typed back a response.
Why don’t we open the—
She stopped herself. Deleted the last three words. It’s not mine anymore.
She tried again. Do you want to rent a storage facility and turn the second floor into a display room?
Stan responded immediately. We’re happy to keep the lights on, but we wouldn’t know where to begin setting up a room.
Callie thought about the next holiday, Thanksgiving. She worked all day Wednesday, and it took a full day of travel to get there since there were no direct flights to Calamity. So maybe over Christmas?