“Yeah?”
“How old is your dad?”
“Fifty-two.” He waits one minute in the quiet, dim room before asking, “Why?”
“And he carries your mom to bed every night?”
“Every night,” Callum says. “Even when I lived at home, he never let me take her up.”
“Has she always— How long has?—”
“She was in an accident a year after I was born.”
“That long?”
“Yeah.”
My brain won’t stop. “Have they thought about getting a home with fewer stairs?”
“I’ve asked them that a dozen times,” he says with a sigh. “But Mom loves this house. They bought it after Kailey was born, and just before she had me. It’s sentimental to her for reasons I don’t understand. Dad says he’s fine, and when he isn’t, he’ll let us know.”
“That’s love,” I say, my heart pumping too fast for my restful position.
“It absolutely is.”
“They’re very sweet,” I say.
“They are the best.”
“I’m glad.” My eyes blur with unshed tears—happy tears. “You deserve the best, Callum.”
The quiet feels small, and just when I’ve decided we’re done talking, Cal says, “You deserve the best too, Fran. Never settle.Ever.Okay?”
Forty-Two
The next morning,we spend hours setting up the backyard with a small crew the Whitakers have hired. The space is bright and magical and ready for the evening’s festivities. We’ve all come inside to take turns showering and getting ready for the party.
Cal’s given me his room to get ready. I’m pretty sure he’s sharing with Asher. Bless him. I am having a small existential crisis, and I’d rather he not witness it.
There’s a tap on Callum’s bedroom door. I’m showered, but not dressed—I’ve slipped back into my PJs while the contents of my suitcase are all over this queen-sized bed.
“Um. Hello?”
The door creaks open, and I’m glad I have any clothes on at all. Apparently “hello” in the Whitaker home is the same as “come in.”
“Hello,” Kristina sings. She peeks her head in, and once she sees I’m decent, she opens the door wider and wheels herself inside. “Callum said you might need help finding something to wear to the soirée.”
“Oh. Yeah. Just decisions. You know?” I swallow and look at my mess all over Callum’s bed. “They’re the worst.” I try to laugh, but I’m having a small panic attack at the moment.
“I get it.” Kristina does chuckle—maybe she can’t tell I’m having a small emotional breakdown. “Is this really in the running?” She picks up my pink T-shirt, the one with the grease stain on the stomach that reads in bright blue letters, “STACKS.”
“Oh. Um. Well, the only time I’ve ever been to something like this is when I was working at it.” I titter out a delirious laugh. “That’s my work shirt. I packed in a hurry, and weird as it is, it felt appropriate at the time.”
She smiles at me like I’m charming instead of what I really am—ridiculous. She sets my work shirt on the bed and picks up my blue skirt—much too short for a family soirée.
“That was just a desperate possibility,” I say, pulling the skirt from her grasp and tossing it toward my suitcase on the other side of the room.
“I’ve been thinking about your theory,” she says, filing through more of my clothing piled on Callum’s bed.
