"Elena was twelve. Old enough to understand that her father had prioritized buildings over her. Old enough to resent it." His voice roughened. "I've spent eight years trying to rebuild what I broke. She tolerates me now. Talks to me occasionally. Agreed to visit this week. But the trust I damaged—that doesn't come back with apologies and birthday cards."
My throat felt tight. I'd spent so much time seeingCallum as the polished, put-together architect who had his life figured out. This version—the one who'd chosen wrong and knew it, who'd lost his family to his own ambition—was harder to dismiss.
"For what it's worth," I said, "you're here now. Trying. That counts for more than you think."
"Does it?"
"Ask me in ten years. I'll have better data."
His mouth curved, just slightly. "Fair enough."
We finished eating. I helped him clean up—over his protests that guests didn't do dishes—and we settled on his fancy sectional with cups of tea neither of us really wanted. The city sprawled beneath us, all those lives unfolding in apartments we'd never see, problems we'd never know about.
"Your turn," he said.
"My turn for what?"
"I shared my damage. It's only fair you share yours."
I tucked my feet under me, his sweatpants bunching around my knees. "You already know my damage. Career pivot. Disappointment to parents. Ex-boyfriend who thinks I lack ambition. Currently homeless due to plumbing failure."
"That's the surface version. What's underneath?"
I wanted to deflect. Make a joke. Redirect the conversation tosafer ground.
Instead, I heard myself say: "I'm terrified I made the wrong choice."
He waited. Didn't fill the silence.
"Going to Brew & Bean instead of finishing physical therapy school feels the most damning.” I picked at a thread on his very expensive couch. "Everyone told me I was making a mistake. My parents, my advisors, Devon. And I was so sure they were wrong. So convinced I knew myself better than they did."
"And now?"
"Now I'm twenty-three, managing a coffee shop that might close any day, with no plan and no idea of what I want to do and the growing suspicion that everyone was right." I laughed, but it came out hollow. "Maybe I did lack ambition. Maybe I was just scared of failing at therapy school, so I ran to somewhere failure looked different."
"Do you believe that?"
"Some days." I met his eyes. "Other days I think I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing work that matters even if no one else sees it. And I don't know which version is true. That's the worst part. Not knowing."
"For what it's worth," he said, echoing my earlier phrase, "I've watched you work for a year. You're not running from failure. You're building toward a success that looks different than what other people expected."
"You don't know that."
"I know what I've seen." He set down his tea. "I know that every morning, you show up before dawn to a job that underpays you. You remember every regular's name, their kids' names, their problems. You slip free drinks to students who can't afford them. You've made that shop into a community."
"That's not?—"
"It is." His voice was firm. "Ambition isn't just climbing ladders, Willow. It's caring about your craft. Investing in people. Building spaces where they feel seen." He paused. "You do all of that. Every single day. Maybe you're meant to open your own shop."
My secret dream that I was scared to voice because I saw how hard it was to stay afloat? My throat threatened to close.
I didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to handle Callum Hayes—cynical, guarded, emotionally constipated Callum Hayes—looking at me with conviction I didn't feel about myself.
"You're being nice again," I managed. "It's unsettling."
"I'm being honest. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
