Page 166 of Callan

Decorated for the holidays, the place looks cozy with its warm lights.

“Here as in…?”

He grabs his fork and starts eating.

“I thought you’d go back. I didn’t expect to see you again tonight?”

He thoughtfully chews on his food.

“I didn’t expect to see you again either.”

I look at him suspiciously.

“Do you often buy coffee at that place?”

“Only when I happen to be in Brooklyn.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I parked it a few blocks away.”

A few moments pass while I read his eyes. I see nothing of significance. I can’t even find the man who fucked me last night or the one who said he’d miss me.

Frustrated, I let my shoulders sag.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I say quietly but firmly, pivoting in my seat to grab my coat and leave.

His hand finds mine, his grip hard and unrelenting. I push my eyes to him, asking for mercy.

“There’s nothing to do, Mackenzie,” he says sternly, keeping me in my seat. “I saw you walking away. I know how you feel. I feel the same. But I can’t do more than what I’m doing now for you. Do you understand?”

His eyes hold mine as I try to make sense of his words.

“Let’s eat,” he says impatiently, letting go of my hand.

He focuses on his food, and eventually, I do the same.

The man returns to our table and asks us again if we’ve reconsidered, and now we want something to drink.

I ask for wine.

Callan wants a bottle of water.

Water won’t do it for me.

My wine arrives, and things look better after gulping down half of it.

“So, are you checking your tickets or not?” he tosses at me in a lighter voice, erasing the animosity of our last piece of dialogue.

“Oh. The lottery tickets.”

I put my fork down and run a napkin over my lips.

“You first,” I say.

He shoots me a questioning look.

“Why?”

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