Page 43 of Callan

Like the one of my ex that Callan asked about, the one I should’ve deleted from my phone.

What does a man like Callan––I’m sure it’s not his real name––know about a man like Quinn?

How can he tell so many things about our story just by looking at Quinn’s picture and running his eyes over me a few times?

I've never understood this commonly accepted belief about people needing to be a good match. I think it’s a matter of how you feel about that person atthattime.

And frankly, I never thought I could do better than Quinn. He was enough for me. But I wasn’t enough for him.

That happens.

Or maybe I wasn’t the right woman for him.

That happens, too.

An elderly woman once said it’s important to find your man before repeated disappointments tear your heart apart.

The more people ransack your life, the more broken you become. You can’t trust your intuition anymore, and your choices become a reflection of that.

I argued with her that there’s a world of perfect choices out there, and it’s a matter of time to find the right person and prove her wrong.

She smiled and said nothing.

I start to believe she may have been right.

Speaking of my current life, I spent last night trying to figure out what was happening upstairs.

It was a terrible way to spend my evening, but I couldn’t stop myself.

The same elderly woman once said our worst picks feed our bodies more than they nourish our souls.

Quinn didn’t do either for me, but we were good friends––or so I thought––until we weren’t.

Everything was fine––I also thought––which wasn’t the case.

At any rate, I can’t blame my inexplicable obsession with the man occasionally spending time upstairs on some emotional baggage weighing down my soul.

I’m fine.

Despite not having a father in my life, I don’t dig the aloof, emotionally unavailable men who tie your mind into a knot with their annoying indecisiveness.

I don’t care for their wicked ways as I consider myself a pragmatic, level-headed person.

So why the hell did I spend my evening crafting scenarios about what went on upstairs?

I don’t know.

But one thing I do know.

The people upstairs––Callan and Carmen, I suspect––had stayed quiet. Although I can’t tell when he left the building, I do have a few theories.

And then, there was this possibility that he had never gone upstairs.

There was a gap between the moment we talked in front of my door and when I decided to check the street.

At some point, I heard steps upstairs.

They were faint and paced.

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