Callie looks so small and defeated. Her long-sleeved sweater is tugged over her palms, and my wool socks are pulled up over the end of her leggings, so she seems cozy but defeated. I move slowly to give her a chance to tell me to stop, then sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “When was the deadline?”
“Midnight.”
“Yesterday?”
“California time. Which is in three hours. I’ve found the application, so I can bypass Kayla and send it directly to the dean of psychology. But I have to write a paper and submit everything within the next three hours, and I can’t get the internet to connect.”
“It’s spotty at night,” I tell her.
She fights a yawn. “I tried to open the window, but that didn’t seem to help.”
“The router is in my office.”
“Rooter?”
“Router,” I repeat, but she doesn’t look less confused. “Where the internet comes from.”
“Oh, yeah. We pronounce it differently. Is it stronger in the office? Maybe I should head down there.”
My stomach clenches. Usually that door is locked, my safe space, a place no one is allowed to infiltrate. I have storyboards and ideas and roughroughdrafts in there.
But Callie also feels like a safe person, and I can’t leave her without a good internet source.
“Come on. You can use my computer if yours won’t connect. It’s wired in.”
The relief on her face is palpable, even with how dark it is. “You beautiful man,” she breathes as she hops up and finds a crewneck sweatshirt to pull on over her longsleeved T-shirt.
We creep down the stairs together. Something about moving through the house in the dark, only using the torch on my phone to light the way, feels like I’m a teenager breaking rules. But this is my house, Callie is just a friend, and we’re doing nothing wrong.
I turn on the light and give my eyes a minute to adjust, then close the office door. Callie puts her laptop on the desk in front of my computer and starts around the room, looking at the framed drawings.Leo and Johnniein their earliest forms dot thewalls, as well as a few awards I received in the beginning for both the books and my illustrations, and the email from my agent telling me the BBC wanted the rights to create a television show for children. It was the moment my life changed.
When Callie reaches that framed letter, I have to physically restrain myself from redirecting her to her task.
“Katie and Nat told me about your books,” she says. “So I know you’re not just a handyman.”
At least she still believes the handyman gig is a real job. “Can’t believe they sold me out.”
She glances at me over her shoulder, and even in this makeup-free tousled-hair state, she’s gorgeous. “They adore you.”
“We’re pretty close.”
Callie looks at the letter again, then moves on. “You should be proud. This is amazing, Gavin.”
I shrug, even though she’s not looking. “I never set out to make it what it was.”
“What did you set out to do?”
Literally no one has ever asked me that. Callie turns, her arms loosely clasped in front of her, expression interested. For the first time, I feel like I can trust someone with this. The guarded secret I’ve held close to my chest, the thing I’ve believed Granny probably guessed at but never overtly said aloud. I don’t know if it’s the schooling and counselor training she’s had or the innate goodness in her soul, but Callie feels easy to confide in. Trustworthy. Safe.
I give her an easy half-smile. “How much time do you have?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CALLIE
I’ve been dyingfor this moment for the last few days, and it couldn’t possibly come at a worse time. My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I ignore it so I don’t break the spell in the room. It’s probably Bekah checking in and asking if I’ve figured out the internet situation.
I might have panic-texted her with too many caps and emojis in the last hour while my computer periodically lost connection.
