Page 84 of Holiday Star
It’s my song.
That’s what Caleb is singing under his breath.
All too soon, we’re at the hospital doors. I still haven’t said a word to him. It doesn’t seem to matter. Caleb is happy, undeterred by my silence. “Have a good day at work,” he tells me cheerfully.
I go in the hospital and stand hiding off to the side where he can’t see me. Peering out the glass door, I watch him walk away. I stay there, not moving, staring as his form grows smaller and smaller until eventually he disappears.
54
The hospital is slammed with patients. There’s a multi-car pileup on the freeway, a nasty stomach virus going around, a lady who comes in and gives birth in the elevator. It’s pure insanity, just like every other day.
Even though I’m distracted by work, in the back of my mind I keep picturing Caleb from this morning. I see him standing there with his easy smile, holding that coffee out to me.
Ever the scientist, I analyze what little data I have. Caleb seems different. The moody man from my mom’s house at Christmas is gone. This version of him is calm and confident. Like he’s more at home in his own skin. But I’ve only seen him twice. I need more information before I can confirm these changes are real.
All day, I wonder if walking me to work today includes walking me home too. Will he be there waiting for me? My hopes rise against my will. A dangerous feeling.
After twelve long hours, the revolving front door of the hospital spits me out onto the sidewalk. My head swivels, searching for Caleb, but he’s not there. I’ve just given up, let my shoulders fall to the ground, when he separates from the shadows of the wall he’s been leaning against.
“Gwen.” My name again, from those lips. I can’t deny the relief that floods my body, but, still scared, I remind myself of all the ways we are better off apart.
He left you for months without a single phone call. Don’t be a fool twice.
“How was your day?” He shoves his hands into his pockets, loping along casually next to me.
I don’t answer his question, too busy thinking about all those long, empty months. I’m also remembering what Jenny said, way back before Christmas, when we did water aerobics.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask abruptly.
Caleb blinks, perplexed. “Um, blue?” he says, giving me a strange look.
“Middle name?” I fire out.
“Augustus. After my great-grandfather.”
“Where were you born?”
“Marion. Small town in southern Illinois. What’s up with the twenty questions?”
We’ve reached the sidewalk in front of my apartment. I cross my arms over my chest, keeping my face stern. “After everything that happened, I realize I don’t know you as well as I thought.”
His mouth turns down, hurt. “I’ve told you before. You know the real me better than anyone.” He shoves his hands even deeper into his pockets, looks over my shoulder, and blows out a frustrated breath.
After a beat, he relaxes. “But if this is what you need, then we’ll do it. You have to answer the same questions, though. Like we did that one time back in California.” He sends me a piercing look.
Oh, yeah. Tit for tat.
“Fine,” I huff, determined to hold on to my outrage over our breakup. “Pink. Jane. Santa Monica, California.” I spin on my heel and march angrily into my apartment, slamming the door in his face.
55
He’s waiting for me the next morning, coffee in hand. My heart wants to lift at the sight of him, but I won’t let it.
Today, as we walk, I ask, “Favorite food?”
“Chocolate.”
“Favorite movie?”
