“How’s the love-life going?” he asks me with a chuckle. The last time we talked, I filled him in on reconnecting with Calliope, including details of our sordid past. When you bare your soul about a dying parent, talking about your first love is pretty easy.
“It’s complicated,” I reply but don’t offer any more. While Wylde is the best man to talk to about what I’m going through with my dad, he’s absolutely clueless about love and relationships. He’s, without a doubt, the resident playboy on the Vengeance team, and breaking hearts—not mending them—is his specialty.
“I’ll give you the same advice,” he replies, amusement evident in his tone. “Talk to her. Don’t hold back. Tell her how you feel.”
“She’s not dying, though,” I reply drolly, because talking to Calliope is probably harder than talking to my dad.
“She might not be,” he says, and I can’t help but smile at the amusement I hear in his voice, “but you don’t want whatever is between you two to wither away because of lack of communication. Come on, dude...it’s basic communication 101.”
Much later, as I’m sitting by my father’s bed while he continues to sleep, my mom in the kitchen making some sort of chicken casserole, I think about the things I want to say to Calliope. How I’d like to be able to make a go of things with her and put aside this ridiculous notion of hers that we can’t be more than what we are.
But fear holds me back because I know, deep down, she hasn’t forgiven me for what I did, and she thinks I’m going to do the same thing to her again.
She’d be wrong about that, though.
The question is, how to convince her of that? That’s something I need to figure out.Chapter 12CalliopeI watch Rafe pick at his meal, worried over his lack of enthusiasm for Beasley’s Chicken and Waffles. It was one of our favorite restaurants to go to together back in the day, and it was his suggestion to come here tonight. I’d stopped by the Simmonses’ house after work and grabbed Rafe. His mom had texted me that she thought he needed to get away for a little bit, and I was happy to oblige.
A little too happy. I missed Rafe the five days he was gone in Boston. He called me when he had some free moments, and we texted regularly, but damn if that isn’t starting to feel inadequate. It worries me to no end that I’m beginning to feel dependent on him for some of my happiness. That definitely breaches the boundaries I set.
Was this inevitable? Taking two former lovers who drifted apart and putting them back into an intimate situation. Feelings will grow, right?
It sounds stupid when I think about it in its simplest form. I also know my refusal to consider the possibilities with Rafe is rooted in fear. Which doesn’t seem so stupid.
Still, I’m worried about Rafe—as I am about Brenda and Jim—and I can’t hold back on him now, despite how concerned I am about the boundaries that seem to be disappearing. “Penny for your thoughts?”
He looks up, his fork stuck in the fried chicken breast sitting atop the waffle. “Sorry...what?”
He looks confused.
Lost.
“Looks like you got a lot on your mind. Want to share?”
For a moment, his face becomes etched with relief, and he even goes so far as to open his mouth to speak, looking as if he might spill his guts to me. I lean a little closer in anticipation.
Then, just as suddenly, his expression clouds, and he shakes his head. He even attempts a confident smile. “I’m good, actually. How about you? How’s work going?”
No, no, no. This isn’t good at all. He’s withholding because he knows that anything he shares with me puts us into murkier water. Would he be sharing as my lover? My friend? The man who hurt me, and yet someone I’ve reopened myself to?
Would sharing mean something past friendship—which is surely hard to quantify?
“Rafe,” I say gently, reaching across the table and taking his hand. “Seriously...how are you doing? Because I’m guessing not good, and I want to help.”
“I’m good,” he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
My right eyebrow shoots up, the other one flattening. “Come on, Rafe...don’t do this.”
He stares back at me for a moment, his jaw working side to side as he contemplates me. He leans back even farther in his chair. “You want to know how I’m doing?”
I smile at him and prop my chin in my hand, ready to take on his burdens.
His gaze moves to the ceiling as he drawls. “Let’s see...”
Attention back on me, he leans forward, crossing his arms on the edge of the table now as he gives me a pointed look. “Well, for starters, my dad is dying. Every day, he’s slipping a little further away from me, and I’m running out of time. I have so much to talk to him about, but not enough time to do it in.”