by Erika Kelly
She held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear about your brother’s plans. You’re on my time right now, okay?” Her look said, Don’t you get it? “It’s not about taking a picture so I can show the board members I created an exhibition. It has to be successful. It has to draw visitors. And if I have to expend a single ounce of energy wondering if you’re going to show up, then just go and choose another project to meet your court-ordered hours.”
Clarity struck him right in the solar plexus.
All these years, they’d been talking at each other. In his mind and heart, he knew he loved Callie. He’d taken for granted she’d be in his life forever. So when she complained about him putting his brothers first, he thought he’d hurt her feelings. That she thought she was in some kind of competition with them.
But Callie was independent. If she wasn’t working at the diner, she was studying or doing her art. She hadn’t needed him to check in with her all the time. She was good on her own. No, the real issue was that he showed up late to everything. His whole family did. Because their competitions came first. Before classes, proms, anniversaries—anything.
He hadn’t seen it until this moment. Callie owned his heart, plain and simple. But she didn’t own his time. His family did. They lived by their own code, their own rules, and those came before anything or anyone outside of them. Raised without a mother, by two staunchly independent—and some would say eccentric—men, they were mountain men through and through.
Callie’d never had a problem with his loyalty to his brothers. She’d had a problem with his dependability. If he said he’d go to the prom with her, he needed to go to the damn prom. Period.
For the first time, he got it. “I won’t be late again.”
He watched her anger melt into confusion. One beat, two beats, and then…“Thank you.” Though, she still sounded skeptical.
“You’ve got me for six weeks, minus a day. Clock’s ticking, wild thing. Tell me your plans, and let me know how I can help.”
She looked down at her shiny black flats. “Okay. Mr. Martin had some great ideas for the central installation. He’s going to bring in some big screen TVs, on loan to us from the A/V department, and we’re going to run the comments across them in a continuous feed from laptops.” She gestured to the walls. “I’m putting up the stories with smaller donations on the walls, but I’ll need to find a way to display the larger ones.”
“The basement’s got a lot more of these library tables,” Fin said. “We can set them up around the room.” The huge rectangular space could accommodate at least ten of them and still allow patrons to wander around with ease.
“The donations keep pouring in, and I can’t display all of them, so I’ll need help cataloguing them. For now, I’m going to store them upstairs.” She turned to take in the room, her brow creased with concern. “Mostly, it just looks drab, so I have to figure out how to make it more exciting. More interactive.” She gestured to a space behind the hanging origami papers. “I was thinking about making a tree. Something with a sturdy trunk and lots of bare branches, so visitors could hang their own stories.” She turned back to him. “I don’t know. That’s all I’ve got so far. I want to keep it simple, but it definitely needs a little more pizzazz.”
“Lighting would make the place look less drab.”
She gave a wistful smile. “That would be great, but I don’t have the time or resources to make that happen.”
I do. He smiled, really fucking glad he had something to offer her. Checking his watch, he realized the timing couldn’t be better. “Come with me.”
The closer to Main Street they got, the denser the tourist population. Callie didn’t have time to follow him around. The days when his life took precedence over hers were long gone. “Fin.”
Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he didn’t break his stride. “Almost there.” His mirrored aviators made him look like a dashing fighter pilot, and the damp T-shirt and athletic shorts showed off his powerful physique. When he lifted an arm to wipe the sweat off his brow his biceps bunched, and she could almost feel the smooth, hard muscle on the palms of her hands.
He stopped and waited for her to catch up. When she got there, he said, “This is for you, wild thing. Trust me?”
She gazed up at this man she’d once loved with all her heart. Who’d given her a community and the sense of belonging she’d missed in her childhood. His love had freed her, enabled her to live out loud, releasing her laughter, her anger, her fears, and more love than she’d known she’d had the capacity to feel.
He’d made a mistake. A bad one, but still. A mistake.
Of course she trusted him. A surge of regret crested hard and fast, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “I’m sorry, Fin. I shouldn’t have cut you out like I did.”
He didn’t answer at first. The hot sun beat down on them, and perspiration beaded over his lip. He scanned her features for a moment, and then gave a tight nod. “We’re good.”
Considering the damage she’d done, he shouldn’t have forgiven her so easily. But the fact that he did made her understand that this—his unconditional love—had allowed her to truly be herself. And she only knew that because for the last six years she’d been on her best behavior in class, at work with her customers, on internships, with Julian and his parents. Always upbeat and polite, even when she felt exhausted and bitchy. Like Mrs. Reyes, she never left her apartment without dressing well and applying make-up.
Because Julian’s love had been conditional.
“You all right?” Fin tugged her arm.
She’d messed up. Taken her heartbreak to level Extra. And it had caused her to hurt so many people. “You’re a good guy, Fin.” He hadn’t deserved her total black-out. “I should’ve…” Guilt whipped through her, as strong as wind on the summit. After spending this time with him and remembering all the good she’d blocked out, she couldn’t live with it anymore.
Tears blurred her vision, and she touched her fingertips to his abdomen. “I’m so sorry about your dad.” Shame bore down on her. How could she have let hurt feelings stand in the way of being there for him after his father had passed away? God, she’d been so selfish. “I should’ve gone to his funeral.”
Just like the assumptions people had made about his text to Traci, she’d come to her own conclusions after seeing countless pictures on social media of Fin partying. So many women had tagged him, acting like they were having the time of their lives, and she’d believed them.
But he was right. She did know him. He wouldn’t have gotten over her that easily—he’d have been hurting as much as she had. And when he’d needed her the most, she’d looked away.
The press of his hand over hers only amplified her guilt. His willingness to forgive her—no, dammit, accept her, faults and all—shamed her. She didn’t deserve it.
He tipped her chin. “Hey.” His thumb swiped away the tears.
But they just kept spilling. “I should’ve put my feelings aside and come home.” It wouldn’t have been some sign that she’d let him off the hook. It would’ve been basic human compassion. “I can’t imagine what you went through. How scary it must have been to lose your dad. He was such a huge presence in your lives.”
Mack Bowie was larger than life. He laughed the loudest, told the most riveting stories, and loved his sons with enough force to move mountains.
Fin’s features pulled into a grimace, and his arm fell to his side. “Yeah. We miss him every day.”
She noticed the We, his way of distancing himself from the pain. “I’m so sorry.”
“We notice it, you know? Every time I walk into the house I brace myself. Ready to hear his booming voice on the phone or shouting to Marcella, You got my boots? Can’t find my damn boots.”
She offered a bittersweet smile for the memory. “I heard he died on Mount Owen.”
“Yeah. Avalanche.”
The image of that big, powerful man skiing down a mountain while twenty football fields of snow crashed ov
er him sent shockwaves of horror through her. What a terrible way to die.
“My brothers and I stood up there with a flask of his 1926 Macallan and toasted him.” He gave a wistful twist of his head. “He died way too soon, but that’s exactly how he would’ve wanted to go.”
“I should’ve come home for the funeral.” She brought her hands to her cheeks and swept away the dampness. “I’ve been such a brat.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”
He cupped her chin, his thumb gently caressing. “I’ve missed you.” He brought her hand to his chest. “Swear to God, it’s like someone shot a hole right through my heart.”
She pushed through the impulse to withdraw and instead let her fingers fist in his T-shirt. This close, she could see the wedge-shaped scar on the apple of his cheek and the achingly familiar look of adoration in his bright blue eyes. The messages sent up from his heart burned a path up her arm, across her shoulders, and then cascaded down through her body. “I missed you, too.” And if she hadn’t shoved them all in a closet, this load of emotion wouldn’t be crashing over her a block away from the center of town.
He bridged the distance between them by pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. At her exhalation of surprise, his eyes narrowed, and his intent became clear. This time he didn’t hesitate to part her lips and kiss her. Heat sparked in her core and spread like flash fire. Nobody kissed like Fin Bowie. Nobody. He had the softest, warmest, sweetest mouth.
Until he licked inside and sweet turned carnal. He didn’t even wait for her response, just clasped her hips and pulled her up against him. Light flashed inside her body like an electrical storm. He tightened his hold, cupped her jaw, and angled her head to take her just how he wanted her.
Oh, dear God, she loved the way Fin wanted her. Like always, she went weightless, sinking, spiraling, losing herself in his possession. And just before the last bit of her slipped under the wave of desire, awareness snapped in her brain. She shoved her hands between them and ended the kiss.
When the dazed expression broke, he let her go, exhaling in raw frustration.
“I like…” Her body trembled. Pull yourself together. “I like that we’re…that we’re talking again and…reconnecting—but not like this, okay? I don’t…this isn’t going to happen.” It can’t. Flustered, she forced herself to step away from the body magnetically connected to hers. “I’m leaving for New York in six weeks. I live there.”
His shoulders pushed back, and he lowered his sunglasses. “Come on.” He turned away from her. “We don’t want to miss them.”
“Miss who?” She had to hurry to catch up with him, her mouth still tingling, desire still whirling like streamers inside her. “Where are we going?”
When he hit Main Street, he turned right, a man on a mission. At her parents’ diner, he held the door open, the cow bells clanging.
Country music walloped them as they stepped inside. The jukebox played Brooks and Dunn’s “Boot Scootin Boogie,” and the wait staff did a line dance in the center of the black and white checked floor. Kids stood up in red booths, old folks clapped with huge smiles, and people sang along.
From behind the counter, her mom stood on her toes, waving wildly, gesturing for Callie to join in. Even though she couldn’t keep the smile off her face, Callie shook her head. She wasn’t part of the staff anymore.
Fin nudged her, and when she stood firmly, he gave her a mischievous smile, wrapped an arm around her waist, and dragged her into the line. Some of the staff, the ones who’d been with her parents most of her life, shouted and clapped.
“Callie!”
“Bring it, girl!”
What the hell, right? And so she joined in. She threw herself into it, just like the old days, swinging her hips and flipping her hair. Fin watched like she was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, and that just made her go harder. She belted out the lyrics along with everyone else, and it felt so damn good.
When the song ended, she held a hand over heart, out of breath and exhilarated. The staff rushed to get back to work, the patrons turned back to their meals, and her mom gave her a thumbs-up.
She turned to find Fin right there, and she had to catch herself by grabbing hold of his arms. That look in his eyes—she’d seen it so many times—like he wanted to drag her off somewhere alone and hike her up on a counter—sent a tumult of emotion through her.
“Callie…” His jaw clamped tightly, making the muscle pop. “You know what’s sexier than watching you laugh and shake your ass like that, all wild and free?”
Her fingers curled into his arm. “What?”
“Not a goddamn thing. Now get that sexy ass to table twenty-three before I grab it and give it a good, hard squeeze.”
Her eyes went wide, and lust spread through her in a hot rush.
“Don’t think I won’t do it.”
Forcing her feet to move, she headed to the far side of the room, where table twenty-three sat under the picture window that overlooked the snow-capped Tetons. Someone had shoved four tables together, and a group of senior citizens engaged in lively discussion.
The Cooters. Callie waved to some of the familiar faces. The group of around thirty retired people had a running date in the diner every morning at eleven, and they showed up whenever they could.
Fin’s breath hit her ear. “We’re in luck. Some of the ones we need are here.”
Turning to face him put her mouth an inch from his. Heat bloomed in her body, and she had to look away. “What exactly do I need?”
Fin moved ahead of her, approaching the table with a big grin. “Hey there, Babs. You’re looking particularly glowy this morning.” After kissing that woman’s cheek, he reached out and shook an older gentleman’s hand. “Stan.” He wrapped an arm across Callie’s shoulders and drew her closer. “For those of you who don’t already know her, this is Callie Bell. Her parents own the diner.”
“She’s quite the dancer,” one of the guys said.
“It’s lovely to see you, Callie sweetheart,” one of the women said.
“She’s got a cool project she’s working on and needs some help putting it together,” Fin said. “And who better to help her out than a bunch of old folks with too much time on their hands?”
“Don’t listen to this guy.” A lean, white-haired man got up to bring an empty chair over from a nearby table. “I founded my company thirty-five years ago. Brought it up from my kitchen table to a world-wide conglomeration, and I just retired two months ago. So you won’t hear me complaining about having too much time on my hands for a change.” He reached out a hand. “Stan Poplar. Have a seat, Ms. Bell, and tell us your troubles.”
“It’s great to meet you, Stan.” She grasped his hand before sitting down. “I don’t…I wouldn’t say I have troubles.”
“Sure she does.” Fin gripped the back of her chair. “She’s putting together a museum and needs help getting it up and going.”
“Okay, first of all it’s a pop-up exhibition. Not a museum. But, yes, I could use some help. I need to open it as soon as possible.” Though she had no idea what role the Cooters could play.
Fin pulled up a chair and sat beside her. He reached for her knee, but when she reflexively tensed, he quickly removed it. “You in?” he asked the Cooters.
“Can you give us a little more information?” A petite woman with sun-weathered skin leaned forward. “I’m Barbara, by the way. The ‘glowy’ one.”
“Nice to meet you, Barbara.” She shook the woman’s hand. “Yes, absolutely. So, it’s the Exhibition of Broken Hearts, and we’ll be displaying stories of people who’ve been betrayed by their lovers.”
“Why would anyone want to read about someone else’s broken heart?” Stan asked.
Barbara balled up her paper napkin and tossed it at him. It landed several feet short, on top of someone’s half-eaten slice of apple pie. “Because it’s the human condition, you knucklehead.”
“Yes, exactly,” Callie said. “But there’s more to it. There�
�s a meme going around called The World’s Worst Boyfriend. It all started with a simple text message a woman posted on her social media account. Without context, her followers made up a whole story about her boyfriend’s betrayal. It turns out that not only didn’t the woman have a boyfriend, but she never posted a follow-up comment to explain anything. But that one text created a community of scorned people sharing their own stories. It’s a fascinating cultural phenomenon.”
“Well, everyone’s had their heart broken,” Barbara said.
“Yes,” Callie said. “And the meme’s somehow created a kind of support group. You know how they have them for grief? Divorce? Well, this is a cyber one for people with broken hearts. So this exhibition’s going to explore both ideas and tie them together: the power of social media to create global communities, and the ability of those communities to effect healing by sharing personal experiences on a public platform. I think…” Callie glanced down at her entwined fingers. “For some reason, betrayal’s a particularly lingering pain. And your friends and family are only going to listen to you for so long. So that leaves you alone with it. It seems like taking your turn at this social media podium helps purge it from your body.” Embarrassed, she looked up with a smile. “Or something like that.”
“I get it.” All eyes turned to the striking, elegant woman at the end of the table. “There’s something cathartic about knowing you’re not alone in a heartbreak of that magnitude.”
Energy surged through her. “Yes. I’ve been obsessively reading the comments, and I was so frustrated with myself. Why couldn’t I stop? They had nothing to do with me. My boyfriend broke my heart, but he didn’t do the terrible things I was reading about. But it didn’t matter. Every story sucked me in. This pain, it’s universal, and there’s just no outlet for it. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say that for the first time I found myself in a chain of people with broken hearts. It was like holding hands, you know? It made me acknowledge my own hurt in a way I never had before.”
