“That is not the best part. Trust me,” Helen announced with finality before punching the power button on the VHS off.
Spurred on by sympathy for my mother’s demand for order, Quinn agreed. “Coming, Mrs. Steele.” She hopped out of bed, abandoning me at my time of need for my mother’s need to put away her Waterford glass bowls. Helen couldn’t help but wipe into her cupped hand the crumbs from the warm sheets where Quinn had just lain next to me, eating treats.
“Get up, Callie. Go wash your face, brush your hair, and come meet us in the kitchen for some real food. You’ve successfully sulked your way through Christmas, and there is no way I am going to let you ruin New Year’s Eve too. It’s time to turn the page on 1992.”
“What are you doing in New York?” I bellowed at the mountain of a man who, for the first time since knowing him, looked much smaller and full of remorse as he sat at my kitchen table. Porter’s eyes frantically searched my face—for what, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps forgiveness for not allowing me to visit him in Manning because at least now he was here? Happiness to see him regardless of the circumstances that played out two weeks ago? Maybe he had memory loss over what went down in my dorm room.
I took in the entire surreal scene before I considered addressing Porter further. The empty cut-glass bowls sat on the kitchen table exactly where they were last night when I went to bed, only now they were filled with fresh fruit and an assortment of pastries from Dean& DeLuca. The weak winter sun forced its way through the newly painted large white shutters, and Helen fussily wiped down the already spotless countertops while my dad stood well out of her way, sipping his black coffee in silence. My ex-boyfriend sat on the edge of his seat, equidistant from the two of them. I spied Quinn mouthHi, Porterwhen she thought I wasn’t looking.Traitor.He gave her a tentative wave back but stayed silent.
“Callie, should I stay, or do you want me to go?” Quinn followed up my question with her own before Porter said a word.
“Stay. Whatever Porter has to say he can say to the two of us,” I declared, and locked arms with Quinn. My parents didn’t even feign exiting the room to leave the three of us alone. We all remained standing, circled around Porter seated at the table. There was no suitcase by his side, just the same jacket he’d had since our freshman year thrown over the empty chair to his left. I ran my hands over the coat’s pockets before making eye contact with him.
“I was too preoccupied to read on the flight.” Porter knew what I was looking for, evidence that what happened between us exactly fifteen days ago wounded him. Destroyed him as much as it destroyed me. “I brought my copy ofThe Odyssey. I was so nervous coming up here I left it in the seat pocket in front of me on the plane.”
That was a significant loss for Porter. His version ofThe Odysseyhad been annotated and tagged with tiny Post-its from at least a dozen readings. The pages had surely been embedded with his very DNA, he had embraced them so lovingly.
“Sounds like Porter Beaumont managed to lose two precious items recently. Is that right?” I snarked. Porter’s willingness to hop on a plane to come see my family, one he already knew well, and lose a personal treasure in travel, did not erase the fact that kept me at arm’s length from him.
“What matters is that you are here now, Porter, and we are glad to have you, aren’t we, Callie?”
I hadn’t realizedwewere both dating Porter or that my mother was so quick to forgive. My face didn’t crack, and Quinn, ever the smart one, didn’t move a muscle.
“Callie hasn’t been able to get out of bed since she came home. An absolute lump on a log. But now that you’re here ...”
“Mom!” I huffed, pissed at her and at Porter. Had Helen Steele never heard of girl code? My dad turned to the Mr. Coffee to refill his cup. Familial confrontation was his uncomfortable place.
“What? I’m just saying it’s a nice gesture that Porter took time away from his family over the holidays to come up here to spend a few days with us.”
As I grew into a young woman, my mom imparted exactly two pieces of relationship advice to me, and she repeated them often: One, be sure that when you wake up in the morning and look in the mirror, you are happy with the decisions you made the night before; and two, men have delicate egos that need to be stroked often. She was walking the talk on Number Two right now.
Thinking back on our conversation about traveling together the afternoon before his abdominal surgery, I did have to acknowledge it was sort of a big deal that Porter got on a plane and flew up here to see me ... not us. I bit my tongue to avoid correcting my mother. As far as I knew, the only places Porter had flown were in and out of Newark to get to and from school and his one trip to the Bahamas for spring break. “So where did you tell your family you were going?” I asked Porter, softening my tone just slightly.
“I told them I was going to visit friends in New York,” Porter admitted, his words shaky.
Quinn elbowed me hard before I could snap in reaction. “And we’re so happy you’re here, Porter. Does Charles know?”
Porter looked up at Quinn, relief in his eyes while I rubbed my arm. “Yeah, I called him yesterday to see if I could stay at his house.” Porter’s eyes moved from Quinn and locked in on mine.
I was not going to be the first one to look away. Instead, I was the first to start crying. Hard.
“Cal-lee,” Porter whispered, gently pushing his chair away from the kitchen table and standing. I put my hands over my eyes and shook my head, willing Porter to both stay away and come closer. “Cal-lee.” Porter walked over and wrapped me in his arms, not at all concerned that my parents were watching.
Kissing the top of my head, Porter held me, regret in his embrace, like he knew he had messed up. The tension in his body relayed that letting me go the first time had been a colossal mistake by a man who did his best to ensure he rarely made one. I sensed by the strength of his hold and the pounding of his heart against my collarbone that letting me go again was a misstep he would not take. “Callie, you are my everything.”
There was only one way to know if Porter was speaking the truth. “What about August Wilson, and Herman Melville, and that one lady, Zora Neale something?” I half teased through tears and a less-than-attractive snot bubble, daring him to place my importance among his favorite novelists.
Porter let out a hearty, guttural laugh, then said, “Zora Neale Hurston. And they’re all dead.”
I shrugged. They still felt like competition.
“You are my favorite writerandmy one and only girl.” Porter punctuated his sincerity with a long, slow kiss on my lips.
My mom and Quinnawwwed at the romantic made-for-movies scene playing out in our kitchen. My dad coughed uneasily.
“So, Callie, are you two sticking with the graduate-school plan?” my dad asked, leaning against the kitchen counter, desperate to shift the topic to something more practical.
“I think so,” Porter replied to all of us gathered in the kitchen but keeping his eyes on me. “Right?”
