Page 3 of Callan

“Please don’t tell me it’s the same woman,” I say.

Unfortunately, she has her eyes on me for too long not to grasp that it’s the same woman.

“I’ll be damned,” I mutter. “I thought they broke up after I broke up with him.”

“I think they did,” she says, knowing more than I do.

She’s still drawing a paycheck from where I used to work.

I got canned because the marketing department shrunk. She stayed because everybody needs accountants.

I’m convinced she’s picked the better career path.

“Is she still working there?”

“She left in July. And I think she’s pregnant.”

The room is briefly quiet before I reply.

“Good for them,” I say, talking like I have a plum stuck in my throat. I ponder for a moment, not looking at her. “Yeah. Good for them. That wasn’t my plan––or our plans, for that matter––anyway.”

It wasn’t.

I mean, I didn’t want to do it with him.It’s never crossed my mind.

We lived together for a while, and he was a mess to the point that I couldn’t trust him with anything.

“Maybe he’s changed,” I murmur, thinking out loud.

She knows our story, and there’s no point in retelling the same old, same old cringy tale.

He was the classic boyfriend I didn’t want to settle down with. And yet, him settling down with someone else rubs me the wrong way.

“You know what? I don’t want to talk about him. I think I need a cup of tea.”

Frankly, I need a double scotch, neat, and then the rest of the bottle, but that’s another story.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” I ask, picking up the phone and heading to the open layout kitchen where I turn the stove on, and fill the kettle before putting it on.

We keep talking while I wait for the water to come to a boil and slide a tea bag into one of the red mugs I bought for Christmas.

How ironic.

I wanted this to be the best time of the year for me despite being unemployed, having no money in my bank account, and not being very successful at dating.

It doesn’t take long before a peal of laughter from upstairs shatters our silence.

The ceiling quivers, threatening to split open, while a shiver races down my spine.

Kayla notices the direction of my gaze.

I bet she’s heard the thumping, the rushed feet, the shrill in the woman’s voice, and the troubling noise of slammed doors coming from upstairs.

“They’re fucking again,” I say under my breath before turning off the oven, picking up the kettle, and pouring hot water over the tea bag.

“Are they for real?”

“Yup.”

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