“How is he fine to talk in a whole restaurant, but he couldn’t talk in front of me ever?”
“He knows no one can hear him from there, and if they did, they wouldn’t believe it,” I say quietly.
We continue to eat and a nice companionable silence settles over us both. It feels so natural to just sit here and enjoy the meal together without the pressure to talk, without the pressure to get to know each other.
Sure, there’s things that I want to know about Caleb. We’ve both changed. But we’re still, at our core, who we were all those years ago.
I feel free and relieved with him knowing exactly who and what I am in a way that I never have before. And it’s such a stark difference to how I felt the rest of my life that I could almost cry with the weight of it being gone.
Instead, I snag a piece of bacon off Caleb’s plate.
He just grins at me.
“You’re not mad?” I say, testing the waters.
“Why do you think I ordered extra bacon?” he says. “I know you.”
I take a second piece just for good measure.
“Good,” he says. “You’ll need that. I have a feeling cleanup today is going to be a whole lot of work.”
“Shit,” I say. “I’ve been so worried about everything else I didn’t even stop to think about my store. You think it’s flooded?”
“Well, only one way to find out,” Caleb answers matter-of-factly.
The fact that he doesn’t freak out, that he doesn’t even think about telling me that it’s probably flooded — just says that we’re going to go look. He’s steady in a way that I didn’t know I needed.
“OK,” I agree.
“Are you going to try your latte?” Caleb says.
“Of course I’m going to try my latte,” I say.
I pick up the drink. I put it to my mouth. I take a long, long sip.
“It’s pretty good,” I finally say.
Caleb reaches over and wipes whipped cream off the top of my lip with one finger then traces it along my top lip until I open my mouth and suck the whipped cream off his finger.
His pupils dilate and I give him an evil little grin.
“Did you want some whipped cream?” I ask innocently. “You should try the latte. You might need the extra energy later.”
He exhales, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
“For the flood cleanup?” he asks.
“For that, yeah. And maybe for something else too.”
“Bread baking,” he guesses. “Conversing with sea creatures. Calling the corners or whatever it is you witches do.”
All humor leaves my face and I suck in a breath.
Calling the corners.
Calling the corners.
The phrase repeats in my head and I try to figure out exactly why my entire body’s gone taut with something between anticipation and fear at the phrase. The kraken last night. The meeting with another Romantic…
