by Sarah Smith
* * *
• • •
I stare at my phone screen, thumb hovering over Callum’s name in my contacts. Seconds pass. Still I do nothing.
The seemingly tiny task of moving my finger feels as impossible as dog-paddling across the Pacific or scaling Everest. I stand up from my bed for the millionth time. I’ve repeated this song and dance all morning. I’ve tried to call Callum while standing at the kitchen counter, in the hallway, outside on the balcony of the condo, but it’s always the same. I freeze, terrified at the thought of what he might say. Or won’t say.
It’s one day after the pep talk from Mom, and I thought I was ready to attempt to contact him. So, so wrong.
Every time I look at his name in my phone, my stomach punches itself. Even so, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, press his name, and hold the phone to my ear.
And then I hang up and toss the phone on my bed.
Wringing my hands and pacing the room doesn’t seem to help my racing heart. Planting my feet on the ground, I face the shiny black rectangle in the middle of my bed. It’s one phone call. One. I can do this.
“I can do this,” I mutter softly to myself as I pick my phone back up and dial again.
This time I grip the wrist of my phone-holding hand with my other hand. Insurance. A backup plan. It’s the only way I can make sure I don’t hang up and toss the phone out my bedroom window this time.
When the ringing turns to voice mail, relief sets in. I breathe. I can leave a message.
There’s a beep. I open my mouth, then promptly freeze. “Hi, um . . . this is . . . um, well.” I clear my throat. “This is, um, Nikki. Hi . . . I . . . well, I . . .”
I’m covering my face with my free hand, leaning my neck back, and trying my hardest to stifle a groan through gritted teeth. This is hands down the most disastrous voice mail message ever recorded.
It’s a few more “um”s and “uh”s until I give up and end the call.
My brain and mouth have failed me. But of course they would. Because how in the world could I sum up my feelings about our relationship in a single voice mail message?
It’s not even close to possible.
Again I flop on the bed, my head spinning. The ringtone of my phone blares. It’s Callum. I answer the phone, but I’m too scared to say anything.
“Um, Nikki?” Callum says after a second.
“Um, y-yeah?”
Callum is on the phone. With me. We’re finally speaking. And I have no idea what to say.
We share a strained silence as I work up the nerve to say something, anything to get a conversation rolling between us.
“How’s Lemon?” It’s the only neutral topic I can think of.
He clears his throat. “That’s actually why I’m calling. Can you come over? There’s something you need to see.”
* * *
• • •
I’m on autopilot the whole drive to Callum’s, speeding past the slow-moving traffic. I didn’t think to ask him what was wrong with Lemon, and he apparently didn’t think to tell me. I park at his place in Wailea and run all the way to the door. I take a second to catch my breath before knocking. The door opens before I can even raise my arm. And just like that, with one look at his face, I’m breathless yet again.
His blank expression turns into a frown when he sees me. “Come on in.”
Inside, I’m one giant stress knot. Now that I’m actually here with him, I’m on the spot. I don’t know what the right thing to do or say is. So I just quietly follow him.
He, too, seems to be taking the silent route as he leads me to the bathroom down the hall. When he steps aside to let me look through the doorway, I’m speechless, but for an entirely different reason.
Next to the wall lies a cardboard box with a fluffy blanket stuffed in it. Lemon sits curled in a ball, three tiny fuzzballs pressed up against her stomach.
“She had her kittens?” I practically squeal.
I dart over to her, careful to kneel down slowly to avoid spooking her. She looks up at me with sleepy eyes, blinking every few seconds. When I scratch under her chin, she purrs instantly.
“Last night while we were asleep,” Callum says behind me.
“Lemon, you’re a mama,” I whisper to her. “Congratulations, my girl.”
I turn back to Callum, who sports a gentle smile. Seeing Lemon with her babies is like a reboot to our dynamic. It’s easy to put all of our nonsense on hold when there’s an adorable litter of newborn kittens to focus on.
“Finn woke up to use the loo this morning and saw her in the middle of the bathroom floor with these three little ones.”
“No way.” I let out a laugh of disbelief.
Callum nods to the box. “That was the best makeshift nursery cat bed we could come up with.”
“You guys did a great job. She looks really happy.”
I bend down again to pet Lemon and take in her litter. One is white with gray spots like her, one is all gray, and one is all white. With my index finger, I take a moment to give them all gentle pats.
“They are so cute it hurts,” I say.
Callum lets out a soft chuckle, the sound like a hug to my heart. A dam inside of me breaks, and all of the old feelings come rushing back. Even though I’m facing away from him, I have to close my eyes while I let the ache inside of me pass.
When I turn back to him, he’s standing in the open doorway with his hands in his pockets. “I thought you’d want to see them. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know sooner. It was a bit chaotic dealing with everything at first, but I called you straightaway once I got everything sorted.”
“Totally understand.” I cross my arms, my gaze falling to the tile floor.
Now that the cuteness of the kittens has been discussed, we’re back to this awkward shuffling of not knowing how to act around each other post-split.
I look up at him. “I’d like to help take care of the kittens, if that’s okay.”
“Absolutely. They are just as much yours as they are mine.”
I nod, the pressure in my chest easing at the flow of our conversation.
We agree that they’ll stay with Callum the next couple of weeks, then I’ll take them to stay with me for a few weeks. We also agree to get Lemon spayed.
I reach into my pocket to grab some cash. “Here, let me pay for some of Lemon’s food. She’s nursing three little ones now.”
But before I can even slip my hand out of my pocket, Callum takes a step forward and puts his hand over mine. I look up and we lock stares. He’s just a few inches from me now, so close I can hear him breathe.
“You know I’m not going to take that.” His voice is low, steady, kind, perfect. I miss hearing it; I miss being next to him so much.
I nod, tucking the money back into my pocket. He lets go of me and steps back to the open doorway. I take a seat on the edge of the tub and focus on the cats to steady myself. The cold porcelain against the backs of my legs is a welcome reset . . . until I remember that Callum and I shared countless naked sessions in this bathtub. When I glance up at him, he’s flushed, his eyes scanning the empty tub behind me. I wonder if he’s thinking about those same memories.
“What should we name them?” I ask, just to focus on something else.
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“You sure? You didn’t seem too crazy about the name Lemon when I first came up with it.”
He gazes lovingly at the box before darting his eyes back to me. “It’s grown on me.”
“Let’s wait awhile. It’s been an eventful day already.” I fixate back on the kittens.
He nods once. “Good plan.”
I swallow, willing the heat inside of me to dissipate. It doesn’t. In fact, the longer I stay in his presence, the hotter I feel. I need to say something before I combust. The messy af
termath of our argument is nowhere near resolved, but I need to tell him that I love him. He deserves to know.
I clear my throat. “We should talk. Don’t you think?”
“About what?” Callum’s frown throws me.
“About us,” I say. “About what happened at the festival.”
Disappointment flashes across his face. It makes my heart plummet to my feet.
When he purses his lips, I can tell he’s choosing his words very, very carefully before he breaks me.
“Can we take a time-out on all of that?” he asks.
Time-out. Just like the one we took on the airplane. He suggested that one too. Only this time, it’s not going to lead to flirty conversation and a newfound closeness between us. This time-out is going to hurt like hell.
“I think today should be about Lemon and her kittens,” he says. “I don’t want to taint the joy of it by bringing up ugly moments from the past.”
His explanation is a total shock—and completely sweet. One part of me is aww-ing that he wants to keep today pure for Lemon and her kittens. But the other part of me is devastated that he rejected my attempt to hash things out between us.
I stand up. “I should go.”
Callum moves from the doorway to let me out. I power walk to the front door, but just as my hand grips the knob, his voice stops me.
“Nikki, wait. I’m sorry, it’s just—”
When I turn around, he’s got that same pained expression on his face as the day we fell out at the Maui Food Festival. It’s the same pain I feel now at his rejection. I steel myself anyway.
“It’s fine.”
I spin around, shutting the door behind me without another word.
Chapter 21
It’s okay, anak.” Mom stirs a pot of soup on the stove top. “Give it some time.”
It’s barely seventy degrees—hardly soup weather. But the normal fall-like temperatures that compel people to cook hearty soups don’t find their way to this part of the island. So anytime it dips below eighty, she thinks it’s perfectly fine to whip up her specialty: a giant pot of chicken soup with bok choy, wild spinach, and whatever herbs and spices she has on hand.
She throws in a handful of pork rinds, and my mouth waters. The salty strips get all chewy in the broth, lending a yummy texture and flavor. Usually, she’s right. Her soup has never failed to turn my mood around. But I’m not sure if it will work this time.
“Mom, I appreciate your pep talk and the soup, but you don’t have to coddle me. I know how grim things look.”
She pours a few ladles full of soup into a large bowl and sets it on the counter by the kitchen bar. I dip my spoon in, blow on the steaming liquid, and take a sip. The salty, satisfying liquid coats my throat. I close my eyes and hum in delight. She’s right. My problems haven’t magically disappeared, but having this soup to enjoy is the comfort I need right now.
Spinning around from the stove, she frowns. “No negative attitude allowed. You think you could magically make things better in one day?”
She shakes her head, turning back to the pot of soup. Carrying her own bowl of soup, she takes the stool next to me. “He told you he loved you, and you rejected him. That cuts deep. It takes time to earn back trust after that. Be patient.”
We finish our soup in silence. I let her words soak in, wondering if she’s right.
I do a mindless scroll through my phone. Chic TV has tagged our food truck in another Instagram post, and I smile reading all the congratulations from commenters. Tweets and messages inquiring about my and Callum’s relationship are sprinkled throughout the mostly positive comments. I roll my eyes every time I come across an especially snarky one. But then I skim a few rebuttals from Penelope and smile to myself. It feels good to have a friend again.
A notification pops up that I have a message from a new follower. When I open the message, I almost drop my phone in my soup bowl. It’s from Madeline, my old housemate in Portland and one of my best friends from my old job. She and I spent countless late nights and busy shifts together, always laughing and venting about our days when we arrived home.
Hey, Nikki! I know it’s been ages, but I follow Chic TV on Instagram and I saw that you and your mom won the Maui Food Festival! Congratulations!! So incredibly happy for you both! And I’m super excited to see that you’re going to be in a commercial too! Just wanted to say that I’ve been rooting for you this whole time and I’m so, so proud of you
With teary eyes, I find the last text she sent me, which was more than eight months ago. I never even bothered to answer her.
MADELINE: Hey. I just want you to know that I’m still thinking of you. Always. I don’t mean to bother you when you’re grieving, but please reach out when you’re ready. Take all the time you need, okay? I’ll always be here for you, Nikki.
My eyes burn. When I blink, a tear falls. But I’m not sad. I’m hopeful. If spending time with Penelope has shown me anything, it’s that friendship is worth the effort.
I can still have my friend back. All I have to do is reach out. And that’s exactly what I do. I open Instagram again and reply to her message.
Hey, Madeline. Thank you so much. You have no idea what it means that you reached out to me I know it’s been forever . . . I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. Life’s been kicking my ass, but I’m figuring it out. I totally understand if you’re not up for reconnecting, but I wanted to say that I really miss you, I hope you’re doing well, and I’d love to call you sometime if you’re up for it.
I hit send and hope for a miracle.
* * *
• • •
“Not again,” I mutter, looking down at my phone.
The number flashing across the screen makes me want to chuck it out the food truck window.
Still no contact from Callum. The only phone calls I seem to get lately are from bloggers wanting details about my and Callum’s failed relationship or because they want us to name-drop them during our commercial slot with Chic TV, which we’re filming at the end of the summer.
I dismiss the call and shove my phone back in my pocket. I don’t have time for this madness when I have a gaggle of nosy vloggers and wannabe paparazzi crowding my food truck space. They’ve been hanging around, cutting in front of the customers in line, shoving people aside, and shouting questions at me sporadically throughout the day.
How any of them obtained my phone number is beyond me. Apparently, some of these food vloggers in Maui are aspiring to be paparazzi scum given how ruthlessly they’ve been behaving.
The warmth of Mom’s hand on my arm is a tiny comfort. She looks up at me. “You ready to start the day, anak?”
I take a breath and nod.
When I open the window to the food truck, I’m promptly greeted with our usual line of customers. But at the very front are a handful of food vloggers I recognize from local blogs and YouTube channels elbowing one another. When they look up and see me, they shove their phones and cameras in my face.
“Nikki! Congrats on your win at the Maui Food Festival! Would you be willing to mention my blog in your commercial?” a high school–aged boy asks. I roll my eyes and say nothing.
A woman in sunglasses and a fedora shoves the high school kid to the side with her free arm, her other hand pointing her phone at my face. “Was your relationship with Callum real, Nikki? Or did you do it for the publicity?”
Mrs. Tokushige and Penelope stare daggers at the back of the fedora’s head. Seeing them show up here day after day is much-needed comfort in this madness. There are a few more questions shouted from the crowd. And then someone asks if Callum is as skilled in the bedroom as he is in the kitchen. That’s when my blood turns to magma.
I slam my hands on top of the metal countertop. “Listen the hell up!”
My shout silences every last one of the vloggers. The high schooler looks on with a
shocked expression and mutters, “Yes, ma’am.”
“My personal life isn’t up for discussion. I’m also not interested in name-dropping any of you in a commercial when you’ve been harassing me and my customers every day since the festival. I’m here to cook and serve food, and you goddamn piranhas are crowding around my truck, making it impossible for my mother and me to serve our customers. Either get the hell out of the way so my customers can order, or else.”
There’s silence, followed by soft mutters. A scrawny white guy in the back of the crowd tucks his phone into his pocket and crosses his arms, stubborn written across his frown. “Or else what?”
Leaning my head back, I puff out all the hot air pent up in my body. He’s the pissant who asked about Callum’s bedroom performance. I swipe a bottle of lemon-lime soda from the counter and give it a dozen of the most violent shakes I can manage. I stomp out of the truck and up to the offending vlogger.
Even when I’m standing two inches from him, he has the audacity to smirk. But when I twist off the cap, a stream of soda smashes him square in the face. My frustration dissipates with each violent burst of carbonated liquid.
Stumbling back, he heaves a breath, then coughs. He wrings his hands, then rubs his eyes. “You have—you have no right!” he sputters.
I can’t help but laugh, then turn around to the other vloggers. They all stand with dropped jaws and wide eyes. Slowly, they back away from the spectacle I’ve created, their gazes locked on me the entire time. It’s like I’m some wild animal they’ve been warned about.
Slowly walk away! No sudden movements! If you’re not careful, she’ll assault you with carbonated beverages!
The offending vlogger wipes the moisture off his face with his arm. “That’s assault! I’ll call the police on you!”
I step forward so far into his space, he stumbles backward. Good. He’s been in my space—on my food truck turf every day, acting like an entitled and rude asshole. It’s time he gets a taste of his own medicine.