Page 183 of Callan

The car is unmarked, and it’s not a cab.

No words are exchanged.

“Your driver?” I ask quietly before the man claims his seat behind the wheel.

“Yup,” Callan says softly.

His hand still holds mine as our ride glides away, and a beautiful view unfolds in front of our eyes.

For sure, we’re not going to Long Island.

Manhattan looks like a beehive of activity, with cars moving across the bridge and pouring into the city and lights flickering along the streets.

It’s a magical world, and for a few long minutes, I can’t take my eyes away from it.

I shift my eyes to him, seeking an elaborate answer, but his gaze is disconnected from mine, his mind traveling away from me.

He looks at the view with forgiving acceptance and implied detachment as if he’s lost something to that world.

In the end, he seems to have adjusted his expectations and accepted that hard truth that, now inherently, is sharing with me.

His eyes reflect the story of a past life I know nothing about.

He’s obviously acquainted with the city.

And honestly, I see him living here. As beautiful as the house in Long Island is, I can tell it’s not his home.

He even confessed to that in a way.

But something about this view also triggers him, and no matter how much I squeeze his hand, trying to comfort him, my gesture barely registers with him.

We enter the city and, soon after, head to the East Side, sliding past places filled with people enjoying the New Year’s celebration.

Moments later, we stop in front of a historical building with a neat appearance and a doorman.

The man holding the door for us greets him the second we climb out.

“Good evening, sir,” he says before we move past him.

His smile is friendly and warm, and later, he goes to the car and chats with the driver.

I look at Callan, who leads me to a private elevator.

The interior of the building is well-kept, but nothing has prepared me for what I’m about to see next.

We walk into the elevator and smoothly ascend, the short ride bringing us to the opulent entrance of a penthouse.

“This is me,” he says quietly and somewhat absent, thinking about something as we enter the large room in front of us.

I take a step in and turn to stone, a timid smile lifting the corners of my lips.

“What…?”

I doubt he’s heard me as he walks in front of me without waiting for me to snap out of my genuine disbelief.

I almost suspect we’re visiting a friend’s place.

He’s not home and has left the key for us.

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