Then she grabs a black body suit and a silver belt.
“This is very much you being the bad Sandy to his Danny. The man dresses like he is a fifties bad boy. Tight shirts tucked into jeans with various jackets. I think he looks better in leather, but he also rocks a jean one really well.”
“How do you know what clothes he wears?” I ask, grabbing the outfit from her.
“Obviously I stalked his social media. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t check him out?”
I pull up Callahan’s page now and scroll through it. He is smiling in almost every photo. Most are with his family or friends, but there are some with women, all of them varying in looks and races. Scrolling back years, I eventually see him with a dark-haired woman who he has the most photos with. It’s when he was young, probably early twenties. I wonder who she is. The way he looks at her is like he is captivated and pained all at the same time.
Farrah looks over my shoulder and tries to scroll, accidentally liking a photo.
“Farrah!” I scream.
“Shit, sorry.” She rushes back to her own clothes and holds up a coat between us like I’m a bull.
“Now he is going to know I was looking at his page.” I throw myself back into my bed. Kicking my legs and yelling into my pillow, I let out my dramatics.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“Ugh, it’s fine. He’ll probably think it’s adorable.”
And he does. I can tell by the smile he gives me.
“Hello there, sweetheart.” He grabs me into his arms and lifts me up.
The way he does so easily reminds me of when we had sex. After putting me down, he walks over to Farrah and offers his hand.
“I know we talked briefly at the party, but it’s nice to officially meet you.”
She shakes it daintily while looking at me. “I agree. I’m excited to get to know the man who has been talking to my friend almost every night.” She has a shit-eating grin on her face when she turns to me, and I fight the urge to give her the middle finger.
He looks impressed that she knows about it and maybe a little smug, too.
We get into his car and he drives us to this spring market. It has a bunch of booths and food trucks all lined down a blocked off street. Farrah practically squeals as she pulls out her card and heads towards the ATM.
Before I can even really look around, Callahan is already talking to a vendor at a flower booth. Within seconds, he has her throwing her head back, laughing. She looks so delighted by him, and I wonder who is trying to sell who. I join them and see they are talking about lilies.
“Yeah, my gran has a bunch in her backyard. Prize winners at fairs,” he says, admiring one.
“I love them so much, I wish they sold as much as the roses do,” she says.
I wander over to the roses while they keep up the conversation. I’m not much of a flower girl. I don’t think gifts are my love language, but I love the smells of this area. Just as Farrah finishes up, Callahan walks over to me and hands me a bundle of lilies.
“You really didn’t have to get me these.”
“You don’t have to keep them. I just thought you would like a little piece of me while you walk around.” He rubs his thumb across the bridge of my nose before cupping my cheek.
Then he turns and hands some hydrangeas to Farrah. She lights up and presses them to her chest. How excited she gets over the small gesture makes me get excited as well.
Every booth we stop at, Callahan seems to have to learn the person’s whole story. He talks to them like they are his new friends, and for once, I don’t feel alone. Usually, Farrah is trying to usher me away from strangers and back on our path, but now I just get to stand with him and chat about how they let their passion lead them here.It’s kind of inspiring. It makes me want to dance and see if being home has rekindled any of my spark.
Eventually, Farrah gets tired of us and rushes ahead. We still take our time buying things here and there. Every once in a while, he hands me something that he says will remind me of him.
So far, I have a cedar bar soap, a key chain with a little car, and a wool scarf. Apparently sheep are important to him. I hate to admit it, but I can’t wait to use the soap and smell him on my skin again.
At the last booth, he buys me a tote bag to put everything in. Even though I don’t typically care for presents, these specialized tokens of who he is makes my skin tingle and heart race. I stay giddy until we walk over to the food truck area. Farrah is seated at a picnic table with too many bags and a variety of food.
“Have whatever you want,” she says when he sits down.
