by Claire Cain
She swallowed. “It’s good you tell stories to remember.”
It hit me. Somehow, it just now hit me. She’d lost her mother, and recently. “I’m sorry for your loss. For your mother.”
She straightened in her seat and speared another bite of breakfast. “Thanks. Yeah, it’s… I don’t know.”
I waited, not sure what to say in response to that, a dull ache in my gut lingering from talk of losing my dad and the thought of how vivid her grief must be. After a moment of searching around the room, her gaze found mine.
“We had a pretty unhealthy mother-daughter relationship. She was my mom, but after the first year or two of modeling, she became more like a guardian and manager. She was my manager for a long time, until we hired someone. But I don’t really remember her being much of a mother after I started working.”
Her voice was smooth and calm, almost like she sat at a distance from all of this.
“That sounds difficult in its own right, aside from the loss.”
How would it be to have a parent who didn’t act like one? The concept sounded so foreign to me, especially because my own mother was so engaged with us, so loving. Like she had to be to make up for what we’d lost, and yet I knew she would’ve been that way if Dad hadn’t died.
“It’s funny. I’ve cried more in the last ten days of being here than I have… probably ever. But I think most of what I’m grieving is just that. The feeling like I lost a mother so long ago, and the woman who died a year and a half ago was something far more complex.”
Her brow furrowed and she looked so raw. I wished it wouldn’t be out of place for me to pull her into a hug.
“It’s good you’re grieving, though. Keeping all of that bottled up can’t be healthy.”
She nodded. “I know. It’s exhausting and I hate it, but I also feel a little better lately. Like acknowledging how messed up our relationship was, that sometimes she was a mom telling me I couldn’t stay up past eleven, and other times she was setting up late night dinners with me and photographers or producers… that dissonance was real. Not imagined. And accepting it now is worth the effort, even if it feels terrible. I’ve even been able to write a bit, which I haven’t done in years. I didn’t even bother to bring my guitar because I had no idea my words were locked up behind all that baggage.”
Dread clutched at my heart. Did that mean her mother was sending her on dates with these men? And how old could she have been to have a bedtime and also be doing that? I wouldn’t ask her, and part of me didn’t want to know if she’d been abused that way. But more and more, I couldn’t lie to myself and pretend I didn’t want to know everything about her. I did, and I hoped she’d keep telling me.
“Well, aren’t you two the cutest all cozied up at the table together.” Warrick flashed me a big smile and wiggled his brows like us sitting and talking quietly meant something.
My heart tripped at the realization that I wanted it to. That it did. I hadn’t shared intimate thoughts like this with a single person I’d dated in the last two months. I hadn’t talked this easily, this deeply, with Samantha after eight months together. She’d asked about my dad, but she’d barely understood my need to grieve losing Charlie. She tried, but she hadn’t lost anything, and I often wondered if it was possible to relate when you’d never felt that kind of pain.
Calla spoke before I managed to. “That was the fastest shower in history.”
“I had proper motivation,” he said, holding up his plate and sauntering over.
“I can’t fault you there. This is great. Thank you again, Wyatt.”
Her big brown eyes blinking at me, the way she smiled and laughed with my brother, the way she’d opened up… I felt myself barreling toward one plain truth. I could deny it and pretend this was attraction. I could remind myself she was leaving and there was nothing to be had between us. But none of that mattered, because when it came right down to it?
I wanted Calla Rice, even if she was the wrong woman for me.
FIFTEEN
Calla
Giant snowflakes jetted down in an endless flow from a gray sky. It’d been snowing almost incessantly the last two days. It was supposed to continue at least another twenty-four hours. I’d accepted that I’d be stuck up here in my little mountain hideaway, and embracing that had helped the restlessness.
I’d been scribbling pages of songs, some of which were halfway decent. I hadn’t gotten to the point of writing the actual music, but some had taken shape beyond the words. I should’ve brought a guitar, but I’d been scared it would sit in the corner and create a black hole where all of my shoulds would sit and judge me. The writing made hours at a time fly, and as much as the mountains themselves, it felt like the time spent with pen to page was healing me.
I pictured my heart like a small swath of fabric, shredded. Each word on a page was a stitch. Each breath of bracing mountain air weaved a thread of strength through me, slowly but surely repairing the rent places. It was a relief to have an outlet beyond tears, something that felt less like only pouring out, but filling me up a bit too.
And frankly, it helped pass the time. My cozy little jaunt here had a fair amount of boredom sewn in.
But after seeing the fluffy white landscape, I couldn’t resist. I pulled on my layers, prayed my jeans and the leggings I’d forced them over would do a halfway decent job of keeping my legs warm, and dove out the door.
After tromping around the cabin, I fell backward, breathless and truly light for the first time in what felt like years as I stared up at the flakes now pelting me and the ground. Cold seeped into the backs of my legs, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t actually that cold, and my body had warmed with the exertion of stomping through a foot of snow.
“Everything okay over here?”
Wyatt’s voice reached me where I lay, a little muffled through the hat pulled low over my ears and the way my head had sunk into the snow.
I raised a hand to show him I’d heard him but didn’t feel ready to speak. The last week of eating breakfasts with him had done something to me. It’d changed things between us, and I didn’t know why or how. Warrick had been at every breakfast save one, and that’d been breakfast burritos to go because Wyatt had a meeting.
The disappointment I’d felt two days ago as I wandered home, a piping hot burrito rolled in foil and tucked neatly into a paper bag cradled to my chest, had been ridiculous. By the time I’d reached the barn, I’d felt almost like I’d been rejected by a prospective date, though I hadn’t ever experienced that since I didn’t actually date.
And I didn’t want to date. Did I?
Easy answer: no.
Because the second that turned into something I wanted, something bad would happen. I didn’t need any more evidence for that lovely little pattern. I’d lived a lifetime of it—wanting something on that gut-deep level and obtaining it at great cost. From the sacrifices I made to get into the music side of the business to the new management that eventually led to Candy’s endless downward spiral, I could now clearly predict what happened when I felt that wanting, and it was never good. It dragged people down, and I couldn’t have that anymore.
The biggest thing I’d indulged in wanting was coming here, back to Silverton. To break from the noise of my life, the staff, the tabloids, the pressure to solve the problem of my failing record sales despite my manager’s insistence I have no creative input, yet again, because I wasn’t “up to it.” Yes, I’d wanted the escape, but in truth, that had been a soul-deep need more than a simple desire. So it wasn’t the same.
In the days since the breakfast burrito, which had been delicious, I eventually accepted that the change, and the source of my dejection, stemmed from the little crush I’d developed on Wyatt. And that was only on my side, as Warrick had asked him when his next date was sometime in the last week, and he’d said today.
Come to think of it, why was he even here?
“Don’t you have a date today?”
I hoped I didn’t sou
nd confused by that because I didn’t want to be. Even though Jenna had continued to press me about “enjoying” Wyatt while I was here, he didn’t want that. Nor did he want me.
“I’ve got about an hour ’til I leave. You okay down there?” He came to stand at my feet and stared down at me, hands on his narrow hips, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
My stomach did a cartwheel. He wasn’t necessarily what you’d call unsmiling, but he didn’t give away smiles for free. Not like Warrick, who must’ve emerged from the womb wearing a grin, sure that everyone in the room was glad to see him and completely right about it.
“Just fine. I’m about to make a snowman.”
“Man? Not woman?”
“Yeah. Getting snowwomen anatomically correct is a lot harder than you’d think.” I sat up, and he reached out a hand.
A wish that we weren’t wearing gloves shot across my mind like a wayward burnt-out star. He hauled me up but pulled with enough force that I stumbled into him. He grabbed my jacket with one hand and clutched me close with an arm around my back to steady me.
“You okay?” he asked, those bright blue eyes more gray today to match the snow sky.
“Yeah, of course.”
He nodded but didn’t release me. Our breaths mingled in the chilled air between us. A beat passed, and my heart took off from the starting line. Suddenly, every molecule in my body was screaming, Kiss me! Like that was something we’d gotten even remotely close to. Like that was something he would do.
But the look in his eyes… wow. It promised things. It threw me over his shoulder and carried me to a warm bed. It activated a part of me I generally ignored.
At the intensity in his gaze, my stomach dropped down into the packed snow at my feet.
He let me go, and I stepped back.
“Need help? With your snowman?”
I smiled at the earnest tone. “Why yes, kind sir. I do find rolling balls of snow to be particularly troublesome.”
He shook his head, not amused, but dropped to his knees next to me and began packing a ball of snow. I got to work too, more pleased by his choice to help me than I should’ve been, and soon enough, we were both shoving ever-growing boulders along winding paths. His came up to his waist before he stopped. “This looking big enough for a base?”
I beamed at him. “That looks amazing, and I’m not sure how we’re going to get a third one on top if we use mine.”
Rolling my giant snowman’s torso along, I savored the squeak and crunch of the snow. It was perfect packing snow. By the time I reached him, I was grinning to myself and felt his eyes on me.
“What’s got you so smiley?” The tilt of his head to one side was, for some reason, adorable.
“I was just thinking how this whole afternoon has taken me back. The last time I played in the snow, I was a kid. It feels a little bit like that, and the snow is perfect. The sky is perfect.”
You’re perfect, I didn’t say, because that was just ridiculous.
“We used to play out here. Warrick broke an arm. Wilder broke his nose. I got frostbite on my big toe because I was too stubborn to come in during a day-long snowball fight.” He shook his head as he gazed out at the space between the barn and the main house.
“Your poor mom. I bet you three boys were a handful.”
He gave me a boyish grin and raised a brow. “You have no idea.”
There it went again—my body tightening under his attention, anticipating. Instead of saying something like “Maybe you should show me,” I returned his smile and smoothed a hand over one curve of my creation. The man muddled my mind, smashed my reason like a trampled patch of grass. I couldn’t think straight when he shared a smile with me, especially now that I knew how rarely he did so.
Soon, we heaved the middle onto his larger base roll, and it stood just shorter than him. Gazing up at our creation, the giggle burst out of me. And yeah, it was an actual giggle. For the second time since arriving here in Silverton.
“What?”
“Something tells me this snowman is going to remain headless.”
Wyatt adjusted his stance, folding his arms over his wide chest. “Maybe he’s a two-level kind of guy. I mean, he’s nice and tall. He’s a good height.”
He brushed a gloved hand over the top of the snowman and pulled it across like he was measuring how tall it stood compared to him. It came to his forehead.
“I do like ’em nice and tall,” I said, almost under my breath but not quite.
“Do you?”
The tone of his voice caught me off guard. He had been joking, but this came out low and quiet. It came out like he wondered what I liked, as though knowing mattered to him.
My eyes met his, and I had the crazy urge to charge at him. To knock him over and climb on top of him and kiss those well-formed lips. “I’m tall, so yes. I like tall men.”
He swayed toward me, like a gust of wind pushed him or he lost his balance for a minute, but other than little wisps of straggling snowflakes, the air was still. “Well, it’s good he’s such a strapping fellow already.”
Something like anticipation spiraled through my chest and made my fingers and toes tingle, ready for what came next. Because something was definitely coming. I didn’t look away when I said, “Yes, it is.”
A strum sounded from his pocket, and he winced. “That’s my alarm.”
Ah, right. The alarm. For his date. With someone who was not named Callaway Rice. Who was not queen of the dumpster fire life splashed across the internet and tabloids.
I took a giant step backward and nearly toppled but kept it together. “Right. You better get going. See you later.”
Or not, if he stayed out late. If he didn’t come home.
Ugly, sour jealousy sparked in my gut. I had no claim to him, no rights where he was concerned. And he couldn’t have been interested in me, or he wouldn’t be leaving here, now.
I dropped down to roll a head I wouldn’t be able to put on by myself but needed somewhere to focus.
He stepped toward me as he pulled something from his pocket and held it out to me. “For you.”
I jerked my eyes to his hands, avoiding his gaze.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the small card and looking at it without seeing.
“Have a good afternoon, Calla,” he said quietly, and his boots crunched along the path back to his house.
I shoved it into my pocket, determined not to give it or him any more attention.
I didn’t stop my rolling and patting until I heard his garage door shut in the distance. And then, I lay back in the snow and spread my angel wings and let the tiny flakes melt into my face, refusing to be hurried by his departure.
Refusing to want the many things I didn’t have.
It wasn’t until hours later that I fished the card out and saw it. Textured cardstock with a natural brown color. In black writing, a familiar logo. Pluck: Music for your Soul. Below that, the location, website, and a phone number.
I’d mentioned writing a bit. Not having my guitar. At some point this last week, I’d been agonizing over a particular song and had wondered aloud if I’d do better with it if I could play along, though part of me still felt relieved I couldn’t fully commit to writing like I would’ve in the past. That trepidation made no sense, but there it was, and I hadn’t bothered looking too closely at it.
I’d had no idea he’d heard me, or noticed. I never imagined he’d be thoughtful enough to do this. Such a small thing, but it showed me he’d thought about me. Maybe he had a Pluck card sitting around, but more likely, he’d grabbed it one day this week while in town.
I’d been staring the little shop down anytime I visited Silverton but hadn’t given myself permission to go inside. And this nudge, even with the bittersweet reality that the thoughtful man who’d given it to me was currently cozied up with someone else, still felt like a sign. Like proof that I didn’t need to keep pretending my heart wasn’t in the writing. That I didn’t need to express mysel
f in that creative way.
I’d admitted the writing was healing—it was part of this time. Whatever nerves I felt about diving fully in, using all my skill and creativity to create something new here, I had to move past them. I would.
Now I just had to get a ride to town.
SIXTEEN
Wyatt
The date with Grace was nice. In another version of the story, I would’ve asked her out again.
Aside from times when things totally flopped, I aimed for at least three dates. First dates were awkward, especially when set up through an app. Second dates eased you in. By three, you’re comfortable. You definitely touch in some way—hands, maybe a hug or kiss. Sometimes that came earlier, but I never pushed for it. I suspected that the general lack of chemistry between me and my past dates dictated the general lack of physical touch.
And yes, I was well aware that many people had fully hooked up by date three. That wasn’t me, especially in a situation where I lived in a small town, knew most of the people, and often knew their entire families. Plus, I just didn’t have the heart for it at this point. Sleeping with someone I didn’t have real feelings for and a future with rang hollow.
Plus, I hadn’t felt moved in that direction. Not that I hadn’t found anyone attractive, but I hadn’t had that instant chemistry with anyone. Nothing like what I had with—well, nothing so remarkable I had to do something about it.
So me and Grace? Yeah, we might’ve gone out again. She was pretty, nice, interesting enough. There was just one problem. But I didn’t let myself think it—didn’t let the thought fully materialize.
Keeping my mind away from the subject I’d determined not to think about had become a full-time job for my brain as I sat through a pleasant hour at Rise and Shine where I’d met Grace.
She’d just left, and I sat swirling the dregs of coffee in my cheery blue cup, wondering if I’d imagined the heat between me and Calla.
“Deep in thought there, Wy. What’s on your mind?” The door shut behind Warrick, and he slipped into the seat across from me.
