Page 10 of Befriending the Bear
Eleanor studied me for a long moment. “Maybe not. But sometimes walls come down on their own when the right person leans against them.” She patted my arm again. “Give him time. And maybe…don’t give up.”
She walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with too many thoughts crowding my head. Calloway was grieving. I’d recognized that. The way it shaped how a person moved through the world. Our journeys weren’t the same, but we did have that in common, mourning what we’d lost. Whatever that was in his case.
I started the slow walk home, my leg complaining about the day’s activities. The smart thing would be to let it go. Calloway had his reasons for not showing up, and I had no right to push into his carefully constructed life. We’d only had two brief encounters.
But as I turned onto Elm Street, I slowed as I approached his house. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over the neat garden. Through the front window, I could see the flicker of what might be a reading lamp. He was home, probably curled up with a book, safe in his sanctuary.
I stood there longer than I should have, balanced between my cane and my worst impulses. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I walked up his front path.
My knock was soft. For a moment, I hoped he wouldn’t hear it, that I could retreat with my dignity intact and pretendthis moment of weakness hadn’t happened. But then footsteps approached—hesitant, uneven—and the door opened a crack.
Calloway peered out, and even in the dim porch light, I could see the flush creeping up his neck. He wore reading glasses that he immediately pulled off, as if he’d been caught wearing something intimate. “Fraser?” His voice was barely a whisper, no stutter at all in his surprise.
“Hi.” I shifted my weight, acutely aware that showing up at someone’s door uninvited crossed about twelve social boundaries. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late, but I wanted to let you know you were missed at book club.”
His knuckles went white where he gripped the door. “I—I wasn’t—” The stutter emerged, fierce and immediate. “I w-w-wasn’t feeling w-well.”
It was such an obvious lie, but calling him out on it would only make things worse, so I nodded like I believed him. “I’m sorry to hear that. Eleanor led a great discussion on Maya Angelou. You would’ve enjoyed it.” I reached into my jacket pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper I’d grabbed on impulse from the library. “She gave us this list of poems for next week. Walt Whitman. And we’re to bring one poem that speaks to our soul. Thought you might want to know, in case you’re feeling better by then.”
Calloway stared at the paper like it might bite. Slowly, he opened the door wider and reached for it, careful not to let our fingers touch. He was wearing a soft gray Henley and worn jeans, his feet in thick woolen socks on the hardwood floor. He looked younger like this, unguarded in his own space.
“Th-thank you.” He clutched the paper, eyes darting between it and my face. “You d-didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.” The words came out more intense than intended. I softened my voice, trying for casual. “Actually, there’s something else. Would you…? Would you like to getcoffee sometime? As friends,” I added quickly, seeing panic flare in his eyes. “I’m new in town, and I could use a friend who knows the difference between Mary Oliver and Mary Shelley.”
The joke was weak, but it earned me the ghost of a smile. Calloway studied me for a long moment, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—want versus fear, possibility versus safety.
“I d-don’t—” He stopped, took a breath, tried again. “I don’t d-date.”
The words came out rushed but clear, like he’d practiced them. There was something final in them, a line drawn in the sand. But there was also something else—a note of regret, maybe, or warning.
“Neither do I,” I said, which wasn’t entirely true but felt like the right thing to say. “Just coffee. Between friends. You can even bring a book to hide behind if I get too boring.”
That earned me another almost-smile. He looked down at the paper in his hands, smoothing out the folds with careful fingers. When he looked back up, something had shifted in his expression. “I’ll th-think about it.”
It wasn’t yes, but it wasn’t no. I’d take it. “That’s all I ask.” I shifted my weight, my leg sending up warning signals that I’d been standing too long. “And on the subject of asking… Would you be willing to give me your number?”
A long pause, hesitation written all over his face. But then he almost imperceptibly sighed. “S-s-sure.”
I quickly created a new contact and handed him my phone. Easier for him than having to say his number aloud. He put it in and handed it back. I immediately sent him a text.
This is Fraser.
Basic, but he’d have my number now, and that was what mattered. Even more importantly, I had his. Maybe he would open up more through text or even a call than face-to-face?
“I should go. But, Calloway? I meant what I said. You were missed tonight.”
Before he could respond, I turned and made my careful way back down his path. I felt his eyes on me the whole way, but when I glanced back from the sidewalk, the door was already closed. Only the porch light remained, casting its warm glow into the September night.
The walk home was slower, my leg finally winning its day-long argument with my stubbornness. But I smiled despite the pain.
“I don’t date.”The words should have been discouraging, but all I’d heard was the unspoken yet at the end of them. Calloway had walls, yes, but he’d opened his door. He’d taken the paper. He’d said he’d think about it.
In wildfire management, we called it a holdover: a hidden ember that survived the initial suppression, smoldering underground until conditions were right to flare back to life. Holdovers could be dangerous, but sometimes they were exactly what a forest needed to regenerate. I had a feeling Calloway was a holdover of a different kind, something that had been smoldering for years, waiting for the right conditions to remember how to burn.
Back at my house, I eased myself onto the couch with a groan that would have embarrassed me if anyone had been around to hear it. The day had been too much with the therapy, walking, and standing on Calloway’s porch like some lovestruck teenager. My leg throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a steady reminder that I wasn’t the man I used to be.
But maybe that was okay. The Fraser who’d jumped out of planes wouldn’t have had the patience for someone likeCalloway, wouldn’t have understood the courage it took to open a door. That Fraser had been all action and adrenaline, mistaking motion for progress. This Fraser—older, slower, held together with surgical pins and sheer stubbornness—might be exactly who Calloway needed.
