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“Oh. It is. It’s also not for me.”
“Because you’re more of a black coffee and revenge kind of guy?” She slants me a look.
“I take it with milk, as you know, but yes. Remember when you said you wanted a regular guy?”
“Yes,” she says warily.
“Well, that’s the kind of guy my family wants me to be. A guy who watches sports and sees them every Sunday for dinner.”
“Oh.” She avoids looking at me for a second and then sighs. “I was lying.” I raise my brows in response. “About the guy thing. That’s not the type of guy I would choose.” She bites her lip and a flash of heat runs through me. And then something that feels like relief. She doesn’t want a regular guy. “Anyways. Your family? It seems like they love you, from what I have—ah—seen.”
“I’m going to choose to ignore that comment,” I respond tartly. “Don’t get me wrong. They love me. They’re grateful for what I’ve done for them, but my mom is still waiting for me to stop working and settle down with a nice girl from the next town over in New Jersey. My dad’s world revolves around whether the Giants and the Rangers are winning, and whatever auto project he’s working on with his friend Larry.” The familiar resentment twists in my stomach at my family’s complacency. They’ve never cared about more, and more is a drumbeat in my blood, the god I pray to.
“That’s kinda nice, don’t you think?” Callie flicks me a glance, her blue eyes dark and mysterious in the glow of the streetlamps. “They get to live that life because you live this one.”
I open my mouth to disagree, then shut it. Callie waits for the light to change on 5th Avenue, watching me instead of the street. “You think that’s nice? Wouldn’t you be annoyed if your family was waiting for you to give up the paper and do something else?”
Her face shutters, and she looks back at the street. “They are,” she finally says. “He is. My dad is my only family. There’s no they,” she explains.
“And he wants you to stop writing?”
“Don’t act like you care.” She sighs. “You’d probably love if I stopped writing.” She crosses the street into Madison Square Park, and I hurry to keep up.
“That’s not true.”
She tucks her chin into her jacket and keeps walking through the park.
“Thompson.” I stop.
She stalks back toward me and stops in front of me. “What?”
“I wouldn’t love if you stopped writing.” Why are you saying this? Because it’s true. I don’t want her to stop. She loves it, and I wouldn’t want to take that away from her.
“Well, my dad wants me to stop.” Her lips are pressed together and her eyes are sad. “He still thinks of me as a little kid, playing paper. I have ideas. Good ideas. Ideas that could save us.”
“What’s wrong, Thompson? You didn’t decide to give up, did you?” The thought of her being beaten down feels wrong, like a stone in your shoe that you can’t shake loose. I can’t imagine a world in which Callie Thompson gives up. It’s not a world I want to live in.
“I hate that you call me that,” she says shortly.
“Call you what?”
“Thompson. Like I’m your servant.” The street lamp flickers above her head, bathing her in soft yellow light. The tip of her nose is red, her cheeks are flushed, and her hair is piled on top of her head in a mess of curls and wisps.
I step toward her and her eyes widen. “What would you prefer I called you? Maybe Ms. Thompson?”
“That would be better,” she says primly.
“What about Callie?” My voice drops on her name and something like longing flashes across her face.
Another step, until she’s right in front of me. “What are you doing?”
I brush my thumb over her cheekbone, then under her lip. Her skin is impossibly soft. Just like it was when I kissed her neck in the gym. Her lashes flutter closed. “Callie,” I murmur. “Callie.” Her name is a litany. I sound like I’m begging her, and maybe I am. I lower my head, just a fraction, waiting for her to close the gap.
Her hands land on my chest, and triumph flashes through me. “Callie,” I say against her mouth. And then I kiss her.
33
Jonah
