Page 21 of Almost Perfect
“I am.” She cleared her throat. “I am. I’m just… I’m in weird place. And I’m sorry you caught me after I’d obviously been crying.”
“I get it. People cry, and especially when they’re inweird places.” Oh great, I sounded like an idiot. “I cried like a starving newborn when my dog died.”
Concern covered her face. “Oh no! When did that happen? I’m so sorry.”
And just like that, she touched me—her hand on my arm like a consolation, and I could admit, not a bad one. Even still, my throat tightened at the thought of him. “Uh, it’s been six months. He was fifteen.”
Just behind her, I pointed to a photo—sure enough, there he was.
“Oh, wow.” Her voice sounded breathy as she studied the photo of me standing next to Sheridan, my horse, and Charlie the year after I’d gotten the puppy. I was twenty-one and smiling like a fool to be home for the summer for a few weeks before I started one of many apprenticeships.
“Anyway, I just want you to know I’m here. I mean, not in a weird way, but just, you aren’t alone out here, okay? If you need anything, I want you to reach out. I should give you my number since Warrick’s in town so much right now, and then you choose whether to use it. No pressure. This isn’t me making a move or anything—”
She chuckled and held up a hand. “I know that, Wyatt. Thank you. And sure, give me your number.”
She typed it in as I gave her the digits, and I kept my eyes on a photo of me, Wilder, and Warrick, all of us gangly and dirty, hanging on to our mom and beaming at the camera. Grandma Tilda had snapped that photo after exclaiming about how messy boys were.
The memory and image were burned into my mind, much like all the moments in these hallways, as they’d been here since I could remember. But I kept my eyes pinned there instead of letting them stray to Calla, to the lines of her face or the slope of her neck that slipped into her soft-looking sweater.
She glanced up and gave me a small smile, but before she could speak, Warrick hollered, “Soup’s on!”
We made our way back to the kitchen, Calla walking a bit gingerly, if I was reading her right. She had to be sore from the shoveling, stubborn woman. Before we rejoined everyone, I made a pact with myself. However pretty and alluring, this woman wasn’t for me. But I could help her make the most of her time here, even if that meant just being someone nearby. And I could be kind and gentlemanly, starting with not watching as closely as I wanted to as she preceded me down the hall.
NINE
Calla
Isat back, completely full and so satisfied I could’ve cried—or maybe that was my lats and shoulders crying from the insane, unexpected post-shoveling soreness.
But I’d done enough crying, and nothing about this evening had made me sad. If anything, it’d been so bright and lovely that I wanted to beam at the three Saints around this table. I wanted to Care Bear Stare my joy into them and hope they could feel just how much this all meant to me.
Warrick’s greeting and continued charm, his mother’s warmth, and Wyatt’s quiet, somber offer had all left me feeling oddly raw. How rare to have a bunch of people giving to me without expectation—I hardly knew them, but I’d interacted enough that at this point, they should be asking for something. Maybe showing their hand about how I could help them if I had connections in the film industry anymore or whatever.
But now, after thirty minutes of eating together and seeing the way Warrick bounced from subject to subject, his mom following along and Wyatt quietly inserting comments, I felt more than a little warmth for the family.
It was so beautiful and simple, and yet also an evening I hadn’t had the likes of in memory. Good food, good people, a comfortable home. In a confusing way, it felt like a revelation.
Not unlike last night’s writing session that’d yielded total junk, but it’d happened. That marked progress. And yes, it’d felt like a new chapter in a book I thought had already come to an end.
Also… I had other feelings.
Wyatt’s gentle reassurance that I wasn’t alone had softened a hard place in me, and I didn’t know how to reconcile that sensation with everything. My mind was a tangle of outdated phone-charging cords twisted into an indecipherable knot.
“Do you cook, Calla?” Jane asked, jolting me back into the moment.
“Uh, no.” It came out oddly harsh, so I chuckled. “I never learned. Normally, I have someone who helps me with that. I’ve been living off cereal and smoothies while here.”
Jane’s blue eyes widened, and Warrick audibly gasped before he said, “Unacceptable.”
Wyatt seemed troubled by the news too. He shifted in his seat, his forehead a stern line of concern.
“I wish I had. My mom didn’t cook much either, especially after I started modeling. We just… It was an odd life, I guess.” Heat burned in my cheeks without warning, and my pale complexion no doubt broadcasted the color.
Jane reached out and patted my hand where she sat next to me. “Maybe it was, but plenty of people don’t know how to cook. These boys do pretty well, but only because their grandmother and I forced them to learn.”
“Wyatt’s the best, by far. Wilder’s decent, or he used to be, but I honestly don’t know anymore.” Warrick settled farther into his seat.
“And you?” I wondered.
