They have. And they do. All the time.And then, unexpectedly, a thunderbolt of a thought. One that involves Callie being pregnant, and me rapturous with happiness.
Despite everything that frightens me about love, I can’t help thinkingit would be a strange kind of wonderful. To look down at Callie’s belly, and know our baby son or daughter was snugly cocooned inside it.
But “Sisters” is all I say. I cast the idea aside. Bury my face in my mug.
•••
After Callie falls asleep that night, I take Murphy for a turn around the block. While I’m out, a message springs to life on my phone. It’s from Melissa. She asks what I’m up to, says it’s been too long. Tells me not to be a stranger.
It’s not the first time. She got in touch at Christmas, then again in February. On both occasions I drafted replies, then failed to press send. Illogically, messaging her to finish things felt almost more cowardly than saying nothing at all.
But now I know that was stupid. I have to message her back. So I do, as neutrally as possible. I fill her in on how things are going with Callie, say it’s probably best we don’t message anymore. I want to be gentle, but I can’t be ambiguous.
I lay it all out, press send, feel ashamed. About the way I treated her, and about how things turned out between us. I hope that, one day, she’ll be able to forgive me.
49.
Callie
In early June, Joel suggests celebrating my official moving-in day with stone-baked pizzas in town. They’re so big we can barely finish them, but we still head down the road to a dessert bar afterward.
“We deserve this after all those boxes,” I assure Joel, over mountainous portions of chocolate torte and cheesecake. “Sorry I had so many. I could have sworn I didn’t move in with that much stuff.”
“No worries. Reckon I’ll be aching in some interesting places tomorrow, though.”
“Me too. I think my muscles have shrunk since the weather’s been nice. I’ve only been topping in the tractor lately—I’ve barely broken a sweat.”
“Sounds all right for a day’s work.”
“Well, yeah. It’s not bad. Enjoy it while it lasts, I guess.”
Joel digs into his cheesecake. He looks handsome as ever tonight in a shirt of light denim, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Exactly. Got to be better than winter, surely.”
I mull it over for a moment, shear off a corner of chocolate torte with my spoon. “I don’t know. Winter’s just got something about it. Like... there’s beauty in the bleakness.” I smile and shrug, because I can’t really explain it. Most normal people detest winter, with its drab skies and sideways drizzle, the constant urge to shiver. “Winter seems wilder, somehow. And I love that. Windswept landscapes, weather-beaten outposts—they’re my bag.”
Joel grins. “Nothing wrong with being niche.”
Smiling, I describe holidays from my childhood, how Dad and I were always exploring outside, going for hikes, collecting little artifacts en route. “That’s why I was drawn to Chile, I guess. It’s that idea of the great outdoors—being really plugged in to the wilderness.” I go on to tell Joel about how great Latvia looks, enthusing afresh as I recount Liam’s love for it.
“So how come you’ve never done it, Cal?” Joel’s forehead crimps with a frown. “I mean, you’ve got all those books and dreams about the stuff you want to see...”
Though I know it’s not intended as a criticism, I shrink back in my seat a little. “It’s just never seemed like the right time. I’m cautious by nature, and my world’s always been fairly... safe, even as a kid. And when I did try channeling Grace, doing things a bit differently, it all went horribly wrong.” I think back to my tattoo, to the horrible impulse-fringe disaster.
“No reason not to keep trying.”
“I know. And I would like to go to Chile and see that bird one day, if only to prove Dave and Liam wrong.”
“It’s that rare?”
I draw the spoon from my mouth. “It’s a kind of... enigma.” In my mind, a shimmer of memory surfaces. “My dad saw a rare bird once. Me and Mum were at the shops and Dad rang her in a flap, begging her to bring him a camera. So we had to jump in the car and race home to pick one up, then speed half an hour down the road to find him at the lake by the bypass... Mum was weaving in and out of traffic...” I laugh. “I mean, I’m no birdwatcher, but I was only seven, and it was pretty exciting. I’ve never forgotten it. I felt like I was in some sort of TV police drama.”
Joel holds my eye. “Well,” he says, “maybe it’s time for you to find a rarity.”
“Not now I’ve landed my dream job,” I say firmly. “Traveling’s going to have to wait.”
What I don’t say is that it’s not only about the job, of course. It’s theidea of being parted from Joel—my own wonderful discovery, a longed-for rare find right here on home soil. It would feel so wrong to turn my back on him now. Even if only for a couple of weeks. Even if it was to chase a dream.
•••
