I didn’t answer.
She kept going. “And Mrs. Dalrymple? You saw her face when I gave her those romance novels. Pure joy.”
Still nothing from me.
She huffed. “God, you’re a brick wall.”
I shifted slightly, adjusting my posture, not bothering to look at her. “Not everyone likes to narrate every thought.”
“Is this your thing then? Brooding in silence?”
“I’m not brooding.”
She turned toward me, clearly amused now. “Could’ve fooled me.”
My fingers curled into fists on my knees. “Look?—”
“No, go on,” she said, leaning in like she was poking a bear just to see what would happen. “Do you wake up with that scowl, or is it just for me?”
I turned my head slowly, met her gaze. There was no judgment in her eyes—just that damn smile and a sparkle of challenge. Like she enjoyed poking holes in my armor.
“I’m not scowling,” I muttered, but even I didn’t believe it.
She laughed. A soft, unexpected sound that filled the van and warmed the air between us in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“Sure,” she said, grinning. “You’re just… resting your face.”
I looked away before she could see the corner of my mouth twitch.
The silence in the van thickened, dense and unmoving. Snow tapped against the windshield like a metronome, steady and indifferent. Callie shifted beside me, her gaze brushing my profile, searching for something I wasn’t ready to give.
“You know,” she said finally, tentative, “you always had this look. Even when I was with Leo. I thought… maybe you didn’t think I was good enough for him.”
I turned toward her slowly, let my eyes settle on her without rushing to speak. The truth pressed against my ribs, but I waited. Let the moment breathe.
“It wasn’t you,” I said at last, my voice quiet but hard-edged.
She exhaled, like she’d been holding that question in for years. “I know that now.”
She leaned back again, arms folded tightly across her chest—retreating, protecting. Her eyes dropped to her lap before she spoke again.
“Still…” she continued, cautiously now, “you never really said what it was like. When you came back.”
That landed heavier than she probably intended. My gut tightened, and my hand flexed against my thigh before I could stop it.
“Don’t.” The word came sharper than I meant, but not sharper than I felt.
Her posture stiffened. She nodded once, slow and quiet, as if I’d closed a door between us.
I turned away and looked out at the snow, watching the flakes spiral in their wild, aimless descent. Just like everything else lately—chaotic, directionless, white noise over familiar roads that no longer felt like home.
She didn’t press again. Didn’t try to fix it or force a confession out of me. And somehow, that made the silence even harder to sit with.
Because the truth was, I didn’t have the words. They were still stuck inside—heavy, snarled, buried under things I’d seen and done and can’t ever explain. Things no one back here would understand.
We sat there like that for a while. Two people inches apart but worlds away, while winter wrapped everything outside in a layer of false peace.
Then she spoke again, voice softer now. Careful. “You’re not as unapproachable as you pretend to be.”
