“Callie makes her own decisions,” I say bluntly before I can stop myself. “I don’t think she’d sit well with anyone letting her do anything.”
“That may be true, but still...” Alvin says coolly, “she’s made her decision crystal clear. She doesn’t want dick to do with you. You’ve done enough damage, Mr. Birdshit. Destroyed enough lives, you and the people like you. Ain’t it enough that you got her career trashed and humiliated the hell out of her in public? Why you gotta go badgering her, too?”
Because I love her, old man, I want to scream at him, but I can’t.
Those words aren’t for him.
They’re for her.
If I ever get the chance to say them face-to-face.
That’s not the kind of thing you text.
Plus, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s blocked my number.
Fuck.
Fuck, I’m scum.
I’m scum, and I goddamned well don’t know what to do.
Because Alvin Landry is right about me and the damage I’ve done.
The people I’ve ruined.
The hurt I’ve inflicted.
Maybe I don’t deserve a chance to say anything to Callie at all.
I meet Alvin’s eyes in silence, then bow my head.
“I know apologizing to you won’t mean a thing, Mr. Landry,” I say. “However, you have my word that I’ll do my best to stop this from hurting her anymore. Even if it costs me everything.”
He doesn’t say a word. I don’t blame him.
His cold, accusing eyes just trail me as I turn and walk back to my car.
I meant what I said.
I’m willing to lose it all to take care of Callie.
After all, what does losing my company mean when I've lost my soul?
When I’ve already lost her?
23
Ticket To Bluesville (Callie)
I’d say I’ve missed the weather in New Orleans, but as I peel my sweat-soaked sleeveless blouse off my back and flap it around to circulate some air against my burning skin...
No. I’d definitely be lying.
I’ve only been outside for under half an hour. Just enough time to walk with my mother to her favorite Café du Monde location.
She always wants to walk, even in this muggy, mosquito-laden heat.
That’s my mom.
As hard as she works to keep her hotel and rentals running, a sticky stroll under the blistering Louisiana sun is child’s play.
I think I got spoiled in that cushy Chicago lifestyle with a snarly god.
All it takes is a week back home to remind me where I came from.
To remember that I’m tougher than the miserable time I’ve spent hunkered down in my room, mourning the loss of my career, plus any chance of helping Easterly Ribbon.
Feeling this illusion that I could ever be in love with Roland Osprey shatter like tempered glass also sucks a lot.
I should’ve seen it coming.
The way he closed himself off when we fought...apparently, he only liked me pushing back when it was foreplay.
Standing up for my principles, my life, doing what I think is right?
Nah.
His charming face would vanish to expose the hunter underneath—and a hunter doesn’t like being deprived of prey.
“Callie,” Mom says—and I realize she’s been saying my name for a while. “Callie, sweetheart, find us a table. I’ll grab your usual.”
“Huh?” I lift my head from studying my pink-painted toenails in their sandals, blinking at her. “S-sure. Thanks, Mom.”
She gives me a concerned smile, then heads up to the counter line.
I linger on her, thinking that maybe there’s hope yet after a relationship gone wrong. I think she’s reverse-aged ten years since divorcing Dad, her red hair lightly touched with iron grey, her face smooth and gently lined with laughter and tears.
It makes me feel like a traitor, honestly.
To be glad she’s happier without the stress of Dad’s drinking and everything else he dumped on us, even though I love them both dearly.
I also know what Dad went through now.
I get why she left.
I understand them both like I didn’t before, though it always makes me feel a little guilty. Like I’m supposed to pick sides.
Could I be like Mom? If I’m lucky enough to get over my asshat boss?
Brighter, happier, not fully realizing just how miserable I’ve been until I’m finally free?
...I don’t like that.
I don’t like thinking about it that way.
Because I wasn’t miserable with Roland until after he drop-kicked my heart.
He didn’t put me through the booze-soaked torment Dad did, either.
With Roland, I was happy.
I can try to tell myself a pretty lie, pretending I wasn’t and I was just fooling myself, but hell.
It doesn’t even matter what he felt.
For me, those feelings, those happy times, were real.
Someone clears their throat behind me. A kindly-looking older man in a seersucker suit dips his head at me, and I realize with my face flaming that I’m blocking the door, lodged there and zoning out like some moody teenager.
With a murmured sorry, I scurry away and stake out a little table next to the tall windows, watching Mom while she orders lattes and cinnamon beignets for us both.