I blame the floppy fish.
“What other clues am I missing?” I say.
Callum’s head is propped on a pillow, his legs stretched out clear across my living room floor. We had to move the coffee table out of the way and even the couch back for Callum’s long legs. He swivels his gaze from the television screen to me. His brows cinch together.
“Huh—what?” he asks, and I’m proud of the attention he’s been giving Darcy and Lizzie.
“Clues. You said I was missing clues. And I’m guessing you were right about Rose. We will be having a talk whenshe gets home. I’m just wondering, what other clues am I missing?”
“Oh.” He pushes up on his elbows, and the musky scent of his aftershave wafts through the air and into my nostrils, giving that beached fish that should be long dead by now another burst of life. “Can I speak candidly?”
“Please.” I roll onto my side, facing him, elbow propped and head in hand, hanging on his every word while Lizzie discovers that Lydia is a bit of a hussy.
“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Well, that guy at the bar?—”
“Doug,” I say, filling in the missing piece.
“Doug. He gave you the kill sign while you were singing. It’s karaoke, not the Grand Ole Opry. You don’t have to be Carrie Underwood at karaoke, yet he tried to cut you off.”
I nod. I agree. But I am still missing his point.
Callum huffs out a small, breathy chortle and turns on his side, mimicking my position. “He ended things with you on that stage, Fran. You should have walked off and left the creep in the dust the minute he told you to be quiet.”
“Left him in the dust,” I say, mentally writing out his words. I was so busy trying to fulfill my remake that it didn’t occur to me to be the one to leave. At least not at that point. You can’t remake a scene if you leave the scene…
“Yeah,” he says. “Nobody puts baby in a corner.”
“Ooo.” I lean an inch closer to him—it’s the floppy fish making me unbalanced. “You’re speaking my language.”
“And Paul. In-it-for-the-glory Paul? Why, oh why did you let that guy stick around so long? He gave you multiple red flags.”
“Red flags,” I say. He is the teacher. Iam the student. I’m not just getting the man’s perspective. I’m getting the Callum (Hot Lips) Whitaker perspective.
“Yes. If a guy likes you, it should actually bother him to see you kiss another man. That was your first clue he wasn’t the one.”
I blink and study my friend. “Huh. I kind of thought that made him noble and forgiving.”
“Nope. Clue.”
I pull in a breath through my nose and exhale. Falling back onto my pillow, I peer up at the ceiling. So many clues. So much that I missed. “A clue that he wasn’t the one.”
“Right.”
“Okay.” I lift up on my elbow again, eyes on Callum, ready to learn. “Then what are clues that he might be the right one?”
“Theone? That’s personal, a question only you can answer. But think about how those guys made you feel. If you didn’t feel better around them than you did without them, that’s a clue they aren’t the one.”
I bite my inner cheek. “And what clues might a guy give if he wanted to… say, kiss a girl? What would he do then?” I think back to that night in my kitchen. But I don’t see clues. It’s like a swirl of colors. I’m not sure how they all came together, just that they did, and I liked it. “Take a girl to the refrigerator?”
Callum blows out a low, husky laugh. It’s a nervous laugh. “That guy should probably be smacked and kicked out of your house.”
“Meh. I like that guy.” I swallow. “Besides, I’m serious. I am, as you say, inexperienced in this. So, what can you teach me?”
His jaw clenches. “Well, what have guys done in the past?”
“Umm…” I lift my eyes to the ceiling. “I’m always focused on what I’m doing. What remake is up next.” I cough out a breathy laugh. Because it sounds dumb. I’m focused on me. What kind of answer is that?
“Maybe that’s part of the problem,” he says.
