We don’t talk as we walk the half mile to a playground. There are two distinct sections—a toddler area with padded tiles on the ground, a small climbing frame and slide, and a bigger wooden adventure playground with two curly metal slides, one open, the other enclosed. There’s an assortment of swings—traditional seats, a couple of tyres, and a large net swing big enough for two kids to lie on. We make our way to the traditional swings and sit side by side, with our arms looping around the chains as we gently rock back and forth, just like old times.
“This is nice.” There’s a strained note to Callan’s voice.
“You could bring the baby here.”
Callan rubs the back of his neck. “I think a newborn would be too small for the slide.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around knowing that Callan is about to be a dad. I haven’t even started thinking about whether I want a family.
“I guess I’ll have to come and visit lots.” He grimaces. “Assuming Niamh wants me around at all.” He sighs. “To tell you the truth, I’m still in shock.”
I frown. “If she’s due this week, you must have known for eight or nine months.”
Callan shakes his head. “She told me a month ago. The day before I called you.”
My mouth drops open.
“She wasn’t going to tell me at all. I’m unsure why she changed her mind, but she suddenly decided she wanted me at the birth.”
“Callan, are you sure it’s yours?”
He stares at the ground for a long time before replying. “You sound like Mam.”
“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”
“Probably not.” He sighs. “I don’t think Niamh would lie. She must have got pregnant just before we broke up.” He tilts his face up and stares at the sky. “She was on the pill, so we weren’t always great at using condoms. I know the pill doesn’t offer one hundred per cent protection, but we thought it was good enough. Obviously, we were wrong.”
I’m not sure if I should tell him I’m sorry or not. I don’t know what to say.
He nudges my arm with his elbow. “You’re meant to be telling me about the last seventeen years, but here I am, hogging the conversation.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.” He glances at me. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
I puff my cheeks out as I try to decide where to start. “I was angry,” I admit. “Upset. I blamed myself. If I hadn’t keyed his car and had kept my mouth shut, maybe my best friend would have still been there.” I shake my head. “All the anger in the world didn’t bring you back.”
“I don’t want to think about what would have happened if you’d stayed quiet,” Callan says in a soft, fragile voice. “He’d have kept”—his voice breaks—“you know.”
I nod. I do. The memory of Callan sobbing and telling me everything still haunts me.
“Go on,” Callan prompts.
“Dad decided I needed to channel my anger into something positive, so he taught me how to make stuff.”
“Out of wood?”
“Aye.”
Callan smiles. “Your dad was always making something in his shed. Does your mam still have the rocking chair he made her to nurse you? My mam used to be jealous of that chair. Every time she went over to yours, she’d talk about it for days. I don’t think it was the chair she was jealous of but the love and care that had gone into it.”
The light happiness in Callan’s voice makes my insides warm and fuzzy. “Mam gave it to Ava.”
“Ava’s got kids?”
“One. A little girl. Fiona.”
