My heartbeat was finally slowing. Every muscle in my body felt loose, heavy, unfamiliar. The kind of calm that comes when you’ve cried too hard or released something you didn’t know you were holding.
Calla moved first. She reached for me with a gentleness that nearly undid me, her hands warm as she pulled me closer. James joined her on the other side, his presence grounding, steady.
They didn’t say much at first. They didn’t need to. The way Calla brushed my hair away from my face and whispered, “You did beautifully,” said enough. So did the way James' hand rested over my heartbeat, matching the rhythm with his thumb.
For a while, we just breathed together. The sound of their breathing, mine, was its own kind of healing.
Eventually, Calla rose and came back with a soft towel and a bottle of water. “Drink this,” she murmured. “Slowly.”
She opened a jar that read “Brat Balm” and applied it to her fingers, then rubbed it together and massaged my ass, as I sipped the water. My throat felt dry, my body light. “Thank you,” I whispered.
She smiled, her expression so open and proud that it almost made me tear up. “You handled a lot tonight. It’s your first time experiencing this kind of release. It’s normal to feel floaty.”
“Floaty,” I echoed, giggling. “That’s exactly the word.”
James' hand found mine. “We’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Just breathe.”
I did as he said, and it worked; the world came back into focus a little more with each breath.
Calla sat on the edge of the couch, her tone gentle but curious. “Tell us what made you decide to see Jason today.”
The question wasn’t sharp, nor did her tone suggest she was seeking to admonish me further; no, it was care.
I hesitated, then told them the truth. “He reached out after Comic Con, wanting to talk. I told myself it was for closure, but really, I think I wanted to prove to myself that I was over him. That I could face the person who broke me and not crumble.”
James nodded slowly. “And did you?”
“I did,” I said. “I felt nothing. Not anger, not longing. Just done.”
Calla tilted her head. “That’s progress, Baby, but next time, let us walk with you through it. You don’t have to face ghosts alone.”
Her words warmed me from the inside out. “I know, and I promise I won't do it again.”
Lying on the couch, tangled in quiet conversation, they asked me if I felt safe. I told them yes. They reminded me that I always had the right to stop, to speak, to be heard. The care in their voices felt heavier than the pleasure that had come before it, heavier and far more critical.
I must’ve started to drift, because the next thing I remember is the sound of James' phone buzzing on the nightstand.
He reached over without thinking, the screen casting a faint blue light across his face. “Yo,” he said, voice low. “What’s good, Black?”
I didn’t pay much attention at first. I was tracing lazy patterns along Calla’s arm, half-asleep. But then I heard it, the shift in his tone. The way his breath caught before he spoke again.
“Slow down,” he said. “Repeat that.”
Calla lifted her head. “What’s wrong?”
James' eyes met hers, and whatever softness had been there moments ago was gone. He swung his legs off the bed and grabbed his jeans from the floor.
“We need to get dressed,” he said, his voice calm but tight.
Calla sat up, her body instantly alert. “Why? What happened?”
He hesitated for half a second, just long enough for the weight of it to fill the room. “That was Caleb,” he said finally. “We need to head to the hospital.”
Her face went pale. “Why? Who?”
James exhaled. “Yourfather.”
Everything inside her stilled.
