“How didn’t I notice it? I mean, until this very second when I woke you—like five seconds ago.”
His brows cinch. “It’s on the inside of my arm, so it isn’t always noticeable.”
I press my lips together and study the man in front of me. Callum doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would get a tattoo for fun and games. I think it must mean something to him. “Why did you get it?”
“For strength. And help.” He shrugs. “It’s meant to encourage. But mostly, it reminds me of my grandmother. She was always quoting that scripture. And whenever she said it—‘Fear thou not; for I am with thee…’—I believed her.”
“Fear thou not,” I whisper, imagining Callum’s grandmother saying the words. “Do you have a picture of her?” I want the pixelated image my mind is conjuring to clear up. What I’d really like is a home movie of the experience. But that might be asking for too much.
“Sure. There’s one of her on my shelves.” He nods in front of us to the triple-wide bookshelves side by side with tiers at all different levels and not a book in sight.
I stand from my spot and take the opportunity he’s giving me. I roam over every photograph rather than just searching out Grandma.
These photos aren’t professional. They aren’t posed. They are candid and sincere and full of joy. Callum and the people he loves the most in the world.
“Who’s this?” I ask, picking up a 5x7 of Callum and a man with salt-and-pepper hair. They look alike.
“That’s my dad. Brady.”
I smile down at the pair, examining it better. Cal is in a graduation cap and gown, while his dad is in a suit and tie. His dad is looking at him like he’s something special. Like he couldn’t be happier. “He must have been so proud of you.”
“He was. I was playing ball and getting a degree. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Impressive.” I set the photo down, but study it a little longer. “I don’t think my dad ever smiled like that.”
“Is he the grumpy type?”
My brows knit. “I’m not sure. I don’t see him often. We talk every couple years, but…” I shake my head, lifting one shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says.
But I don’t mind him asking. I’ve dated—a lot—but no one asks about me. And I’m not afraid or opposed to sharing my story. It may not be as exciting as Callum’s, but it’s still mine.
“Don’t be,” I say. “It’s not your fault. I’m not really sure what it feels like to have a dad. When he lived with us, he and Jo were always fighting. It wasn’t happy. It was a lot more peaceful after he left.”
I pick up the next photo. “Is this your mom?” The woman sits at a table, the room dim and birthday cake in front of her. She’s blowing out candles, her eyes closed, with Cal on one side of her and Brady on the other.
“Yeah. That was a couple years ago, when she turned fifty. She said she wanted to forget the day, so of course Dad threw her the biggest party of her life.” He chuckles. “She loved it.”
My insides warm as he shares. These pictures aren’t mindlessly posed portraits—they are stories. And I love that. This is exactly what I want, what I’m working toward: a shelf full of stories.
“She wasn’t mad at him for going against what she said?”
“Oh, she was. For about two minutes, and then he forced her to play pin the crown on the queen. He had a photo of her blown up and paper crowns. She couldn’t stop laughing. I think she still calls it the best birthday of her life.”
“Rosalie threw me a party once. I’d never had one, and she was certain she needed to put an end to that. So, she invited every person we knew—from school, from work, everyone. She had a strobe light, and we just left the door to our apartment open. We lived in a smaller place then. I think we could only fit four or five people in at a time. But people I didn’t even know came by, ate Rosalie’s cookies, and wished me a happy birthday.” I smile with the flashback. I love that memory. “It was fun.”
Callum studies me, and he looks as if he might want to say something. But I’m holding another photo, and I’ve got questions. “What about this one?”
Four people—Callum and three others. They sit out on the grass, and white goop spills down the side of one girl’s head.
“My siblings.” He walks over until he’s standing right beside me, until I’m breathing in pine and musk once more. “This is Kailey—she’s one year older than me. She decided we were going to play this game my mom had made up years ago. You ask a question, and if the person doesn’t know the answer, they get a whipped cream pie in the face. If they do know the answer, then the asker gets the pie in the face. In this photo, I had just asked her to define what a False Nine is.” His brows bounce once, and his smile grows as he thinks about the moment.
I shake my head. “What is it?”
“A forward who drops into the midfield instead of staying up front to confuse defenders. It’s a soccer term—Kailey is the least athletic person I know.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and peers at the photo. “So, I got to smack a whipped cream pie in her face. She was nineteen, sothat would have made me eighteen. And I thoroughly enjoyed the job.”
I snicker. “Who’s this?” I point to the boy laughing in the photo.
