But I’m guessing Callum loves every member of his family.
“I’m his favorite,” she says as if understanding my thoughts. “Always have been.” She leans forward in her chair, taking my hand in hers. “Here’s what I noticed: He never took you out of the game either. Instead, he called you his partner in crime.”
A laugh that sounds more like a cry titters from my lips.
“He sees you, sweetheart.”
Forty-Three
The Whitakers’huge backyard looks like something out of a fairytale. Twinkle lights, silk flowers blooming, paper lanterns hanging from the sky—actually from wires tied from tree to tree, but they look as if they’re just floating there. It’s magical. Yes, there was a work crew and all of the Whitakers working, but the plan was all Kristina’s.
She is brilliant.
I’m in a simple pink sundress that I borrowed from Kailey and my own brown strappy sandals—and it works. Kristina’s floral print dress flows around her legs and arms. Her long hair is down, and she looks beautiful. As does everyone else in her family.
Callum’s in a tie, but no jacket. His dress shirt fits snug over his chest and athletic shoulders. Something about him in a tie is making my insides implode with fireworks. It’s a weird sensation. I can’t think of a time when my insides became a lit firework stand.
One hour into this party, I hold to my plate of stuffed mushrooms, fruit skewers, and fresh veggies, watchingCallum on the crowded grounds as he chats with an older couple and his mother. He knew I was hungry and sent me off for food.Bless him.
“You must be Callum’s girlfriend,” a woman in a big lavender hat says.
“Girlfriend?” I say past the cauliflower I just stuck in my mouth. I choke the half-chewed veggie down and shake my head.
“Yes,” the older woman next to her says. Her brow wrinkles. “What was her name again? Serenity?”
“Simone, Mother,” the lavender hat says.
“Oh, snap.” I swallow again and find my voice. “I’m here with Callum, but I amnotSimone.”
“Not Simone?”
“I’m Fran.” I hold out a hand, and for three seconds, the older woman just looks at my palm. Then, pinching the tips of my fingers, she gives them a little shake.
“I haven’t heard of a Fran,” the woman says. “But you’re with Callum?”
“I am. And you are?”
“I’m Martha Walker, and this is my daughter, Daphanie.”
This time, I know better; I don’t hold a hand out to Daphanie.
“How do you know the Whitakers?” I ask.
“Brady started working for my Eric twenty-five years ago. He’s been with the company ever since.”
I don’t know which company—I never got around to asking Brady what he does. But I smile and nod as if I know. I’m not Simone, but I’m not a nobody. Didn’t Kristina tell me that just this morning?
I am enough. Just me.
“And you?” Martha asks.
“Callum and I are friends.”
“The kind of friends you bring home to meet the parents?” Martha says, eyeing her daughter.
“Yes.” I’m here after all, so I suppose we are those kind of friends.
“We’re pretty proud of our Callum,” Daphanie says. I might be jealous, except that Martha’s daughter is closer to Kristina’s age than mine, and she’s wearing a ring.
