Page 71 of Love Me Stalk Me
And then, suddenly, it all comes out, words spilling from me like water through a broken dam. The floodgates open, and I can't stop the torrent.
"It's just...I know I should leave," I say, voice cracking under the strain of finally saying it out loud. "I know it's bad. I know Evan treats me like shit. I know I should be furious at him for what he did today. But I—" I break off, shaking my head, hands gesturing helplessly in the air. "I don't know what else to do."
Callahan stays quiet. He doesn't try to fix it. Doesn't try to fill the silence with empty words or easy solutions. Doesn't tell me what to do or how to feel.
He just listens.
And for some reason, that makes the words come faster, makes me want to tell him everything, like lancing a wound to release the poison. The relief of finally speaking these thoughts aloud is like sucking down a breath after a lifetime without air.
"He wasn't always like this," I say, voice thick with emotion. "Or maybe he was, and I just ignored it. I don't know anymore. He used to at least... pretend to care about me. Now it's like I'm some—some project. Something he's working on. Something he needs to fix so I'm finally good enough."
I don't realize how close Callahan's standing now.
Or maybe I do.
Maybe that's why I keep talking. Because if I stop, if I let the silence settle, I might have to actually think about what I'm saying. Might have to face the reality of my relationship, of my choices, of the person I've become. The words keep flowing, filling up thespace between us.
I lick my lips, exhaling hard, feeling my throat close up with emotion. The taste of salt lingers on my tongue from the tears.
"My mom was...she was really hard on me growing up," I admit, and I can hear how raw it sounds, how vulnerable. "About my weight. About how I looked. She'd pick apart my diet, make comments about how much I was eating or whether my clothes fit differently. I love her a lot, and I know she meant well. But, it always felt like there was this...this expectation, you know?
"I think when I got with Evan, I was still—" I pause, laughing bitterly, wiping at a fresh tear that escapes. "I mean, twenty-five is still young, right? I thought I was grown, but I wasn't. And when he started doing the same things, saying the same stuff about my body, my weight, what I should eat...it wasn't a red flag."
I finally look at him directly, my chest tightening as the full force of his attention settles over me.
"It just...matched."
I swallow, blinking fast, willing the tears to stay put, to stop betraying me. The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, but I push through.
"It wasn't a shock. It wasn't even new. It was just another person telling me what everyone else always told me."
My attention drifts toward my desk, where a small trophy sits half-hidden behind my monitor—regional archery champion, three years in a row. A relic from when I was fourteen and could outshoot all my brothers, when I was confident and fearless, when I didn't care about being pretty or thin or acceptable. Before I started caring what anyone thought about my body. The gold-plated figure atop the marble base catches the light, a reminder of a different version of myself.
"The stupid thing is," I continue, finding my voice again, steadier now, "I've always been good at things. Really good. Weird things, random things my brothers taught me, yes, but also things that matter. I graduated top of my class in business. I can forecast sales trends better than anyone at corporate. I built a tracking system that's reduced our inventory loss by sixty percent."
I gesture to the spreadsheets on my desk, to the careful notations, the complex calculations that come so naturally to me. The pages are filled with my neat handwriting, numbers and projections organized into a system only I fully understand. "I can tell you exactly which items from the spring collection will sell out first and which ones we'll be marking down. I can spot a counterfeit handbag from across the store. And yet..."
I shake my head, frustration coloring my voice. "And yet somehow none of that matters as much as the fact that I gained thirty pounds over the last three years."
I shake my head again. "But now, I don't know. Something feels different. I feel different. And I don't even know why."
Callahan's jaw is tight, his hands flexing slightly at his sides, like he wants to grab something, hit something, fix something. His body is tense, coiled with a controlled anger that isn't directed at me but at the situation, at Evan, at the world that made me feel this way. The muscles in his forearms stand out as he restrains himself.
And for some reason, that makes me feel better.
Like maybe I'm not crazy for finally realizing something isn't right.
Like maybe it's okay to feel different.
Like maybe I'm allowed to change.
I didn’t realize how close Callahan's standing now.
Not until I turn and suddenly he's right there, only inches away, his presence filling the space around me. I inhale quickly, the sudden proximity sending a jolt through me. The scent of him envelops me. I force a weak, watery laugh, embarrassment washing over me now that I've said so much, revealed so much of myself.
"Oh my gosh," I say, rubbing my hands over my face, trying to erase the tear tracks, to regain some semblance of professionalism. The cool metal of my rings presses against my heated skin. "I don't know why I just told you all that. That's so inappropriate. I?—"
I shake my head, mortified. "I am so sorry," I mutter. "You probably don't?—"
