Page 72 of Seer
“Of course.”
We lapsed into silence again.
When we reached Cal’s apartment building, I parked a row over from his truck. From this distance, it looked well-cared for, if distinctly old.
Cal turned around in his seat, opened his mouth, then shut it with a frustrated expression. He said, “Ms. Jackson, I was going to ask if you wanted to come up to my apartment or stay in the car and go with Greg to his place later, but you can’t answer me in this form. Um.” He darted a glance in my direction. “Why don’t we bring you upstairs right now anyway, and you can change your form to the Ouija board where it’s private?”
I nodded. “Plus, you might have questions Ms. Jackson can answer after you try to call a vision.”
Cal shrugged. “Maybe so.”
He got out and leaned back down to pick up his backpack and the stack of books he hadn’t looked through on the drive. I opened the hatch and grabbed Cal’s leather duffel. Circling the back of the car, I unbelted Ms. Jackson and picked them up.
Cal waited until I’d locked the SUV before leading the way toward the building entrance. We walked past his truck, and I saw him look into the bed, still littered with trash, and grimace. He said over his shoulder, “I need to take it to the car wash.”
I eyed the beer cans, cups, and cigarette butts. “Do you smoke?” He’d never done so in my presence, and I hadn’t noticed him smelling like cigarettes.
Cal shook his head, then called back, “My company does a quarterly cleanup of one of the local parks. I’m in charge of taking the trash bags to the dump, but some of them always break. I got so distracted with all this stuff—” He lifted the stack of books. “I haven’t had time to get the truck cleaned.”
“Oh. Got it.”
Well, fuck me. I was an asshole making asshole assumptions.
My chest was hollow, guilt swallowing every other emotion.
When I’d met Cal Monday morning, what had made such a bad impression on me? I’d noticed his tattered backpack, which was now fixed and had an emotional backstory.
Then there was the coffee stain on his t-shirt, which had said “Moist” on it. To be fair, anyone could spill coffee on themselves, and I hadn’t seen Cal with any stains on his clothing since Monday.
I’d cringed every time I’d noticed “Moist”, but now that I knew Cal better, I was certain he’d intended to generate that reaction in everyone he walked past.
And while the “Moist” t-shirt would never be my favorite, I could see I’d let my visceral reaction to it color my perception of Cal as a person. Fuck.
And finally there was the trash in his truck. The coffee cups in the cab were gone; I’d checked when I walked by just now. And he’d had a damn good explanation for the litter in the truck bed.
I felt horrible. I’d made incorrect assumptions and decided Cal wasn’t good enough for me. And I’d shown it. What a fucking entitled prick I’d been.
Would he let me salvage our relationship?
I scoffed at myself. We didn’thavea relationship. I should be asking whether he’d let me start over and try to build one.
Luckily Cal didn’t seem to notice my silence while I processed my epiphany. I followed him onto the elevator, and we went to the third floor. The building was nicer than mine. The carpeting in the hallway seemed new, the paintwasn’t scuffed, and it was well-lit with no burned-out lightbulbs.
Cal set the stack of books down outside unit 301 and fished his keys out of his pocket.
“Go on in,” he said, gesturing me ahead of him after he’d unlocked the door. He bent down to pick up the books again, so, carefully not admiring his ass, I walked past him into the apartment.
It was a standard layout, much like mine. But Cal hadn’t spent any real effort on his décor. His furniture appeared solid and comfortable—important for a man of his size—but most items were in shades of black or gray. There wasn’t any artwork on the wall, just a large TV above a media center that held three different game consoles, plus their controllers and accessories.
But what he did have were bookcases. Eight of them in the living room alone. They were all filled with books, graphic novels, and console game cases. Here and there were some action figures, but they were few and far between.
“Wow,” I said as I set Ms. Jackson carefully down on the Ikea-style wooden dining table.
“Yeah, I don’t decorate much, sorry.”
“No, I like all the books.”
Cal flushed, walking past me into one of the bedrooms. “Thanks.”
