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When I don’t elaborate, she raises an eyebrow and says, “Callahan,” in that way of hers.
I huff out a half laugh. She won’t let this lie, so I think back to buying my first photography print. How drawn I was to the Ezra Stoller image with its play of lights and darks, the sharp angles, the flow of the softer lines, like the building was caught in transition. A living, breathing creature that could morph before my eyes. “I didn’t hang them because I liked them too much.”
She squints at me. “Isn’t that usually why peopledohang art?”
“Sure, but I didn’t want Houston to be my home. Didn’t want to give it the kind of permanence that comes with beautiful art. These pieces”—I gesture at my meager collection, allowing the truth of my choices to settle—“were too interesting. Too fascinating to be part of my one-dimensional life. Hanging them didn’t feel right.”
Her eyes glass over. “I hate what you went through. I’m still so sick about it.”
I cross my arms and chew the inside of my lower lip. “What’s done is done. There’s no undoing the past. My future is brighter now.”
Her penetrating gaze sweeps over my face. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Always look at the bright side of things?”
“Do I?”
“You know you do.”
I scratch my nose, feeling exposed. “I’ve had tough times. Days when I couldn’t find the silver lining.”
WITSEC was a zinger of toughness. As was hurting Jo and Jake with my jealousy. I also hated when those two would be locked in his room. I couldn’t stay home those days without wanting to punch the wall.
Most of the time, though, I pushed through. Focused on the good. My family. My friends. “The bright side is easy to see when it doesn’t all revolve around me. Seeing my brothers happy now—in love with their girlfriends and rebuilding their lives—that’s my silver lining.”
“Your happiness is important too. Finding love of your own.” Her voice has quieted, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the room. She swallows slowly and steps closer, looking almost nervous. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“No.” The word is a low baritone that reverberates in my chest. I don’t know why it feels like the room is tilting or why my clothes are so damn tight. “I’ve dated here and there, but like with all of us, the effort felt off with our fake identities.”
This conversation also feels off. It’s not like Jo and I didn’t discuss dating and crushes when we were young and inseparable. Before she started seeing Jake, at least. In my place, like this, quiet and older, the discussion feels heavier.
She licks her lips, a slow drag of her tongue that has the tightness in my clothes worsening. Her dark eyes settle on my mouth.Blood.I suddenly taste blood from biting my lip so hard, which she must have noticed.
“Jake,” I force out. “He asked me to tell you he’s free for dinner tomorrow. Wants to take you out.”
She opens her mouth, looks like she’s about to speak. Abruptly, she turns her back to me and resumes studying the photograph. “I’m glad you put your art up here. You have great taste.”
“That’s my favorite piece,” I say, pleased she ignored the Jake prompt. There was no dinner invite. Mentioning him was a panic move. If Jo is still sore about the cheating rumors, more finesse is needed. I don’t have the mental energy to pull strings tonight.
Taking her lead, I join her by the photograph. “I actually find the people in this more interesting than the architecture. I like wondering what those men on the street are talking about.” If they were shooting the shit about a friend’s gambling debt or the drudgeries of factory work or the Wall Street Crash of 1929.
When I purchased the photograph, something about the snapshot of life reminded me that everyone has a story. Mine sucked for ten years, but woes are woes. No one goes through life in a bubble of perfect happiness.
She leans forward, studying the slightly out-of-focus figures. “That’s obviously Joe and Floyd. They’re arguing over who should make their next batch of moonshine.”
Relaxing my stance, I grin. She’s playing our inventing-stories game. “Maybel is on those stairs near them, giving them hell for playing their swing music too loud last night.”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “She’s pissed Floyd took her sister on a date and never called again. Now she’s debating lighting a match near his hair, which is coated in pomade.”
I chuckle, enjoying the moment. Our easy banter returned. “You need help unpacking?” I ask. “Is your back okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Back’s tight but better than this morning. Once I take my muscle relaxants and sleep in a comfy bed, I should be okay. And, Cal.” She faces me anddamn, those eyes. Big and soft and achingly beautiful. “Thanks again for letting me stay. It hopefully won’t be too long, but it’s hugely appreciated. You made a really bad day a lot better.”
“However long is fine,” I say gruffly.
chaptertwelve
