by Erika Kelly
“You blocked me because you thought I was fucking around?” Whatever reasons he’d come up with, he’d never considered that. Cutting him off for something he’d never done? Fuck that. “You knew me, Callie. You fucking knew me. What, you thought overnight I’d just turn into a horndog? You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted. You knew that.”
“Come on. You’d only ever been with one woman. Of course you wanted to have some fun.”
How the hell had she ever gotten that impression? “You were enough, Callie. Jesus, you were enough for me. I have never wanted anyone else.” And I never fucking will.
Color splashed across her cheeks, and he could tell she wavered, so right before she fell onto the side of mistrust he got a hold of her. Cupping her cheeks, he held her gaze, letting her know with everything in him that she lived in his bones, his blood, in his heart and in his soul.
He waited for her to get it, that he’d never wanted anyone else. He held his breath as emotions battled across her beautiful face. It’s us, Callie. It’s always been us, and it always will be.
But, still, she stood there, lips pressed together, eyes uncertain.
She was killing him. Trust me, goddammit.
When her hands closed around his wrists and her features softened, his knees went weak with the flood of relief. Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue peaked out to moisten them.
He felt that lick deep in his gut. Lust stirred, and his cock hardened.
She let out a shaky breath, eyes filled with resignation. “We blew it.”
Yeah, they’d blown it, but they could recover. They would recover. Did she get that?
But she just lowered her hands and looked away. Opening the door, she hoisted herself onto the truck’s seat. “I’ll see you later, Fin.”
He stood there, watching his heart take off down the driveway.
When she’d loved him, her stubbornness had been a good thing because it meant she’d never give up on him. Now, though, it meant she’d never forgive him.
He watched until the dust settled, and her truck turned onto 191.
He watched the empty driveway until his heart, covered in the sludge of loss, regret, and guilt, started beating with the rhythm of determination.
Because it wasn’t over. Not by a longshot.
In fact, it was just beginning.
I’d loved Fin all my life. When he went to war I wrote him with constant dedication, eager for him to know he was loved. I’d include a leaf from his front yard, an article cut from our hometown paper, anything to give him a piece of home. A reminder. He never wrote, and he never came back. Four years later I ran into him in Orbach’s department store. Shopping with my former dear friend. They wore matching wedding bands.
Callie dropped her forehead to the steering wheel, her heart aching for a woman she’d never met. She had to stop torturing herself with these stories.
Tossing her phone into her black leather tote, she got out of her dad’s truck and trudged up the walkway. When she saw the moving boxes stacked on the porch she lost her rhythm and nearly stumbled.
He’d done it. Julian had actually kicked her out of his apartment, knowing it would leave her homeless. No matter his threat, she hadn’t believed he’d actually go through with it. He’d had a week to cool down since the rehearsal dinner and realize how much he missed and loved her. But he hadn’t.
How does this make sense? He’d been the best boyfriend, always bringing her flowers, getting her orchestra seats for Broadway shows, ordering her favorite microwave popcorn in bulk so she never ran out. He checked in with her after finals and presentations to see how she’d done. He’d paid attention to everything.
She shouldered the door open, dropping her keys in the bowl and her tote onto the floor, before turning back around to haul the boxes in.
Whatever she’d done wrong, it wasn’t bad enough to leave her stranded. He knew she had nowhere else in the city to go. He didn’t care about the two jobs she’d had to quit, leaving her employers in a bind and her reputation ruined.
As she hefted a box and brought it to the dining room table, it struck her that her entire life in New York City fit into two boxes. She didn’t know what that said about her, and she wasn’t in the mood to contemplate it. The whole situation pissed her off.
Once she’d carried the second box inside, she grabbed a knife from the kitchen and slit it open. Was this some kind of punishment for having loved someone before him?
Well, screw him. He could’ve given her a chance to explain why she hadn’t told him about Fin. But, no, Julian wanted things to be perfect. He didn’t want deep or messy. He just wanted things to run smoothly.
She whipped her phone out of her purse and hit his speed dial.
He answered right away. “Calliope?”
And for the first time she could admit she hated the way he said her name. He wanted her to be a Caroline or Katherine or Elizabeth. But she was Calliope, and no upper crust tone could make it sound any different than what it was: a musical instrument from a Bruce Springsteen song. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“Okay.” He sounded wary.
“How did you go from loving me enough to marry me to clearing my things out of your loft?”
She could hear the rush of the city in the background. A cab honking, someone shouting. The roar of traffic. “I see the boxes arrived safely.”
“You realize I have nowhere to live, right?”
“I sent them to your home.”
“You know, I don’t know whether this is because my family’s so firmly middle class and you realized I don’t fit into your world or because I didn’t tell you about my high school boyfriend, but the idea that you’d dump me—leaving me homeless, jobless, my entire future upended—is disgusting.” Digging into the box, she pulled out a freezer bag filled with her conditioner, shampoo, and lotion. How very tidy of him. “To discard someone you supposedly love…what kind of relationship is that?”
“Not a very good one. Not when only one of us is committed to making it work.”
“We were living together. How much more committed did you need me to be?” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t say yes to your proposal, but come on. I just graduated. I don’t have a job yet. I’m not ready to get married. You could’ve given me time.”
“Time is exactly what I’m worried about. What happens when the pendulum swings back? When Calliope becomes Callie again or settles somewhere in between? I’m not willing to risk my heart on someone who doesn’t know who she is.”
“That’s ridiculous. In Calamity, I was a girl. In Manhattan, I’m a woman trying to make her way in the art world.”
“A woman with a past she’s not acknowledging. Calliope, I saw you—”
“Stop calling me that. You can’t make me into one of your prep school heiress friends. And all of this noise boils down to one thing. You think I might go back to Fin. And I’m telling you that’s not going to happen.”
“I saw the way you looked at him.” He sounded exasperated, like reprimanding a dog that kept nosing his crotch. “The way you looked at each other. And, I’m sorry, but the fact that you reinvented yourself so completely that your family and friends didn’t recognize you? Well, it’s a sign.”
“A sign?” Reaching deeper into the box, she grabbed her winter boots and dumped them on the floor.
“Yes. A sign that you need to resolve your issues before you become involved in a new relationship.”
“So let me get this straight. You loved me enough to marry me, to spend your life with me, to raise your children and grow old with me, but not enough to learn about my past and stick by me while I work through whatever childhood issues I might have.”
“That’s not at all what this is about.”
She was about to ask what it was about when she pulled out the pale pink cardigan with pearl buttons he’d given her a week after they’d started dating. In that moment, everything clicked. “I’m not your mother.�
�� Setting it down, she touched the bracelet he’d given her for graduation—a family heirloom. The pearls, the cardigan, the outings with his parents…slowly, but surely, he’d been incorporating her into his world. Turning her into the kind of woman he—and his parents—would be proud to introduce to their friends.
And isn’t that exactly what they’d planned on doing with her this summer? They’d wanted her to quit her jobs so she could accompany them to Martha’s Vineyard and the Hamptons. They were, in essence, grooming her to fit into their world.
Between school, work, and worrying about her future, marriage hadn’t entered her mind. She’d just enjoyed the attention from his mom. Sophisticated, worldly, and well-respected, Jacqueline Reyes was the quintessential New York City patron of the arts.
“I’ll never be her.” Although, hadn’t she aspired to be exactly that?
“I know that.”
She thought of her hippie mom, usually harried, tendrils of her salt and pepper hair floating around her face, always warm, generous, and kind. So very different from Mrs. Reyes who never went out without perfect makeup and hair and looking anything other than polished in her designer outfits. Nobody hung out at the Reyes’ house. No, if she had company, it was a catered event.
The woman never got her hands dirty.
“And I don’t want to be.”
When the door opened and her dad walked in from the garage, Callie got up.
She’d been watching him carefully, looking for signs of heart disease, but he hadn’t been unusually sweaty or tired. He hadn’t seemed in pain.
Frankly, he’d looked invigorated. Thanks to Fin?
Smelling like a brewery, he walked past her to the refrigerator. Bottles clinked together as he set them on the shelf.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Nope. I’ve been working on your inheritance.”
“You’re going to drink yourself to death and leave me with a whopping insurance policy?”
“No, Callie-bell.” He shut the refrigerator and arched his back, twisting from side to side. “I’m making beer. I believe you fancy folks call it artisanal beer.”
“You’re running a microbrewery in your garage?”
He grinned, and it warmed her to see him relaxed and happy. “I tried to run it in the basement, but your mom wouldn’t let me. Good thing, huh?”
“I’ve known you my whole life, and you’ve never had a single hobby. This is great, Dad.”
“Yep. I’ve got a winter brew made with rye that’s dark, spicy, and crisp. And an English pale ale.” He said it with a British accent. “That’s full-bodied with a strong, assertive hop flavor.”
She got a kick out of how much he seemed to be enjoying this. “Wow, Dad. Just…wow.”
The screen door slapped closed. “Hey, sweetheart.” Her mom bustled in, arms loaded with take-away containers. “I brought some food if you’re hungry.”
Callie relieved her of the top two boxes. “Mom, it’s almost midnight. I’ve eaten.”
“I’ll just keep it in the fridge. You can eat when you’re hungry.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve actually learned how to cook.” She smiled at their confused expressions. Growing up with a chef for a father and an endless supply of diner food, she’d never bothered learning. And then, of course, she’d gotten a job waiting tables as soon as she got to New York, so she’d never gone hungry a day in her life.
“Cook what?” her mom said.
“I can make a crostini with fig jam, brie, and prosciutto.”
Her dad grimaced. Her mom’s brows shot up.
“Not to mention a mean blackened shrimp, avocado, and cucumber bite.”
One side of her dad’s mouth quirked. “Been attending cocktail parties, have we?”
Callie smiled. “Why, yes. Julian and his crowd are so very posh. I also make a cheesecake to die for.” The Reyes’ chef had taught her that last one. “It’ll rock your world.”
“Now that I’d like to try,” her dad said.
“Sure, sweetheart.” Her mom rubbed a slow circle over her dad’s heart. “As long as you use low fat cottage cheese, gelatin, and lemon zest, we’d love to try it.”
The reminder of his heart condition put a damper on her mood. “I would say that sounds disgusting, but I love my dad, so I’ll do it. I’ve got some skills now.” To a girl who’d grown up with picnics, bonfires, and cookouts, the dinner parties Julian’s friends hosted had seemed strange at first. Young people wearing cocktail dresses and eating hors d’oeuvres? The people she’d grown up with hung out at bars or went hiking or waterskiing together. Only the people of Mr. Bowie’s billionaire world threw dressy dinner parties.
But Julian had bought her a series of cooking lessons—Ah. He really had been turning her into his mom. She’d enjoyed the lessons, so she hadn’t thought anything of it.
Why hadn’t he just gone for someone from his own crowd? Why had he bothered with her?
Whatever. Screw Julian. She had way more important things on her mind. “So, listen, Julian’s boxes came, and I guess that was my wake-up call, because I spent the whole day wracking my brain trying to come up with a plan for my summer, and I think I’ve got one. I will absolutely help out with whatever you need me to do here or in the diner, but I’ve got an idea that’ll get me the fellowship.”
“We’re all set, sweetheart.” Her mom turned on the faucet and washed her hands.
She knew that. Her parents hired high season help in January—and there was never a shortage of students looking for summer hours.
“Tell us the plan,” her dad said.
“I’m curating an exhibition. Here, in Calamity.”
Her mom reached for a dish towel, her lower back resting against the sink. “You want to open a museum here?”
“More like a pop-up exhibition. Just for the summer. But I need a venue, and I thought I could use the apartment over the diner. I can’t afford to pay rent, but I need to be in town, where I’ll get foot traffic. The apartment’s not ideal because it’s small and there’s a big staircase—”
Her mom shook her head, pushing off the sink and heading toward her with a gleam in her eyes. “Forget the apartment. You can use the old Town Hall.”
“I have no money for rent.”
“Listen to me. For two years now they’ve been arguing at every town meeting about how to make use of that damn empty building. They never get anywhere because no one can agree. I finally got the bright idea to move the Farmer’s Market into it during winter months. The Association pays a dollar a year for the whole bottom floor.”
Hope flared. “Are you serious?” When she’d come up with the idea, she’d figured it’d be a long-shot. How could she pull off an exhibition in seven weeks? But with a venue, this could really happen. She’d keep it simple, bare bones. It was the subject matter that would draw people. She didn’t need fancy displays.
“Tell me about it.” Her mom seemed excited. “What do you have in mind?”
“You know how I’m obsessed with reading the comments on Fin’s meme?”
Her sweet, honest parents couldn’t hide the flash of pity, but they both nodded and let her continue.
“Well, it’s not just me. Traci’s Instagram post has over a million likes and hundreds of thousands of comments. The hashtag on Twitter isn’t dying down. I don’t know what it is, but people need to tell their stories. It just seems like people who’ve been hurt and betrayed don’t get over it. It wounds them in a way that doesn’t heal.”
Her parents looked at her with concern.
“But sharing their stories seems to help. Maybe it’s just seeing they’re not alone, that there’s a huge community of people who can relate.” She grabbed one of her dad’s beer bottles just to have something to do with her hands, because she was about to get real. “I have to face the fact that I never dealt with my breakup. I punched it down to a manageable size and then stuffed it away. And…” She glanced up at them. “I’m pretty sure it’s wh
y I chose Julian.”
It was a little disconcerting to see their looks of understanding. It had been obvious to her parents after knowing Julian all of twenty-four hours.
Well, she’d woken up now. Maybe it was coming home and finally facing the man she’d loved with all her heart—discovering that just being near him flushed out all the fiery feelings she’d thought she’d gotten rid of—or maybe it was reading the stories and being forced to face what she’d avoided all these years. Probably a combination of a lot of things, but all she knew was she wanted to become a whole person again.
Her mom reached out and squeezed Callie’s arm. “I’m glad to hear this. You have no idea.”
“I think…after Fin…I lost some of my spirit.” She said it quietly, worried they’d think badly of her. “And I want it back.” But it didn’t matter what they—or anyone—thought. What mattered was fixing the problem. “And I think, from reading those comments, that a lot of people want their spirits back. So I’m going to make The Exhibition of Broken Hearts.”
Two sets of eyebrows popped up. Her mom smiled. “I love it.”
“Not sure how that’s a museum,” her dad said.
“Don’t think of it like a traditional art museum. A pop-up is a temporary event. Basically, it takes over an empty store or building. My interview’s not until August twenty-fifth, so that gives me seven weeks to get it up and running. If I could operate it for a full month, I’d be happy.”
“Help me out here,” her dad said. “What kind of artwork will you display?”
“If I can get the old Town Hall”—she shot her mom a look, That would be amazing—“I’ll display the stories that’re being posted on all the different sites. I’d love to do it electronically—because this is about the power of social media, right? One single text message created a massive community through it. But it’s more important that I get it running, so I have to keep it simple.” Another idea hit. “It would be great to record some of them. I want these stories to surround the visitors, box them in…force them to pay attention.” And right then her idea crystallized. “That’s why this meme is healing people. Everyone just wants their story to be heard and acknowledged. The people who hurt them didn’t care. They just did what they wanted and moved on, leaving their former lover with no way to…purge the pain.” Yes. That’s exactly what I want to show.
