Page 116 of Callan

“What do you mean?”

He shifts his eyes to me and makes an effort to smile.

“It’s Christmas Eve. What would you like to do?”

His question turns me into a silly, blabbering girl.

“Are you talking about you and me?” I shrug before getting an answer from him. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t want to go back home. In fact, I’m not sure I want to live there anymore. Should I call the police?”

He says nothing.

“Yeah. All right… Probably not,” I go on. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Anyway. I’d rather not go home. And other than that. I don’t know what else to do. Most people are home,” I say, a tinge of melancholy in my voice. “Is there any place open?”

“There are places open,” he says quietly, studying me with infinite patience. “How come you’re alone?” he tosses at me out of nowhere, catching me unprepared.

“You mean…? What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Of course I know what he means.

Tension spins like a disco ball in my chest.

Of all the topics we can discuss, this is the most stressful one. Except for when I filled out official documents or faced bureaucratic questions, I never had to get into this with anyone.

Kayla vaguely knows my story. Not really. As kind as she is, she has never insisted on knowing my entire story, and there wasn’t much to tell.

“Are you going to tell me?” he says. “How come you have no one?”

“I have you now,” I joke, trying to divert his attention from the panic I swirl in.

“Mackenzie?” he says, unfazed, not falling for my tricks.

I push out a sigh.

“Why is it so hard to tell me?” he asks quietly.

“Because… It’s nobody’s business,” I retort softly.

“What if it’s my business now?” he replies, and emotions soar through me.

“It’s never been anyone else’s business…” I argue, panicking and barely pushing the words out.

“Things can always change,” he says, a kernel of understanding beaming in his voice. “I have nothing to gain from your story. And I won’t use it to hurt it. I just want to know,” he says, his eyes hard to avoid.

It takes me a few moments.

“I’m one of those infants left on the steps of a church with a handwritten note next to them,” I said my voice made of brittle glass, my blood cold, my face unmoving like a slab of concrete.

Surprise washes over his face, hardening his features.

“I grew up in foster homes,” I go on. “Other than that, I learned how to take care of myself, earn a living, and pay my bills. And stay away from most people.”

“Why’s that?”

I softly shrug.

“There’s much more to lose than gain with them. And I can’t afford to lose much. Anything can knock me over. If you know what I mean.”

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