“Is it a lie, Cal?” she asked. “Think about how you feel when she walks into a room. Think about how empty your penthouse felt this morning after she left. Think about why you’re sitting here in my sunroom instead of at the office making another million dollars. Is that really just ‘chemistry’ or ‘compatibility’ or whatever other clinical term you want to use to avoid saying the L-word?”
I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. The truth was too terrifying to contemplate.
“You’re going to lose her,” Gram continued, her voice gentler now. “Because you’re too afraid to admit what you feel.”
“And what if I do admit it? What if I tell her I... care about her, deeply, and then it falls apart anyway? What if I end up just like them? What if I hurt her?”
“What if you don’t? What if it works? What if you build something beautiful together? Are you willing to lose her for certain just to avoid the possibility of future pain?”
Put like that, it seemed ridiculous. And yet, the fear remained, a cold knot in my chest.
“I don’t know how to do this, Gram,” I confessed, my voice barely audible.
“No one does, darling,” she said, reaching out to pat my hand. “That’s the terrifying, wonderful truth of it. Love isn’t something you can control or predict or manage like one of your tech projects. It’s messy and inconvenient and often arrives at the worst possible time, wrapped in the last package you expected.”
“Like a judgy wedding planner with plans for every occasion?” I asked, a small smile finally breaking through.
“Exactly like that. And if you let her go without a fight because you’re too scared to admit she matters, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
“I need to see her,” I said, standing. “I need to talk to her.”
“Yes, you do, but not like this, not half-cocked and desperate. She deserves better than that.”
“Then what do I do?”
“First, you figure out what you actually want. Not what you think you should want, or what’s safe to want, but what you truly, deeply want.” She fixed me with a steady gaze. “And then you find a way to show her that you’re serious. Words are easy,Callan, but that woman needs to see you grovel. Preferably on your knees.”
I nodded, my mind already racing. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she warned. “You’ve still got a mountain to climb, and that girl has every reason to leave you stranded at base camp.”
“I’m good at mountains,” I assured her. “And I’m very, very motivated.”
“Good,” she said, picking up her book again. “Now go away. You’ve interrupted my reading, and just at the part where he’s ripping her bodice.”
“TMI, Gram.”
“Tit for tat.”
I chuckled and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Love you, Gram.”
“See?” she said, patting my cheek. “You can say it when it matters.”
The next two weeks passed in a blur of frustration and planning. Despite me ending the bet, the wedding was still on. The bride still very much absent, but I fully intended to change that. True to Devonna’s word, Anica was completely unavailable. My calls went to voicemail. My texts received polite, professional responses, always signed “A. Marcel” rather than just “Anica.”
When I stopped by her office unannounced, Mari intercepted me in the reception area with a sympathetic but firm redirection.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” she said, crossing her arms. “And I say this as someone who once made a detailed PowerPoint presentation entitled ‘Why Callan Burkhardt ShouldRail Me Against A Wall.’ You need to respect her boundaries right now.”
“I just want to talk to her,” I insisted.
“And she just wants to not have her heart broken again by a man who publicly declared that love is a fictional construct,” Mari countered. “Funny how we don’t always get what we want.”
I winced. “She told you what happened.”
“In excruciating detail. Over several bottles of wine and at least one pint of ice cream eaten directly from the container. It was not pretty.”
The image of Anica upset made something twist painfully in my chest. “I need to explain.”
