Page 73 of What Hurts Us

I reached into the pocket on the side of my thigh and pulled out my phone. A string of texts from Callum were at the top of the screen. He sent them around ten last night, but I hadn’t gotten a chance to look at them yet.

Callum:I’m trying to fall asleep and realized that I’ve never told you that I hope you have a good day at work.

Callum:So, I hope you’re having a good day at work, Honey. I’ll see you when I get off duty tomorrow night. Want me to pick up dinner from the Mule?

To anyone else, it wouldn’t have seemed like a lot. But to me, it was everything. Cal had yet to open up about why he was so opposed to relationships when he was so obviously cut out for it. My heart clenched as I typed out a response.

Layla:I need to sleep this one off. Hope your day is good. Only a few more days of desk duty.

Cal had been working hard to rehab his leg so he could return to his beat. Even though he detested it, he never missed a PT session and did his at-home exercises like a star pupil. I knew he was excited to get away from the mountain of paperwork drivel, but part of me wasn’t ready. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him pinned in his car, gasping and groaning as he battled excruciating pain.

Callum:You good to drive home? Heard from dispatch that y’all have been going all night. I can come pick you up.

Layla:I’ll be better after some shut-eye. You take care of the town.

* * *

I was not betterafter attempting to sleep it off. The cloud of misery followed me around when I woke up, and I puttered around the house. I had texted Beth to see if she wanted to go out, but she was tending to “office hours” with her professor boyfriend.

Office hours my ass.

And even though Brandie Jean had been kind of fun to get wine drunk with, we weren’t at call-a-girl-up status yet.

I resorted to crafting glitter pumpkins. I was going to decorate the front porch of Cal’s house, and he was just going to have to deal with the addition of festive seasonal decor. I was halfway through a futile attempt to recreate the ten-dollar faux pumpkins I saw at a store with fifty dollars of craft supplies.

Before I busted out the paint brushes, tacky glue, and metallic glitter, I threw my flight suit, Cal’s uniform, and a handful of towels into the wash. The machine buzzed at the end of the cycle as I was dumping silver glitter onto the side of one of the boujee white pumpkins I had overpaid for at the farm stand.

I should have just bought the plastic ones and saved my sanity…

But the frustration of the contagious disease of the craft world being all over my hands helped distract my mind from the last twenty-four hours. I finished putting the clothes in the dryer as the front door opened and closed.

“Hey—oh…” Cal stood frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed, as he held two bags from The Copper Mule. He surveyed the aftermath of my crafting chaos.

I hadn’t done much in the way of crafting since moving into Cal’s house. Usually, I just made paper roses out of old pages of sheet music or knitted a few rows on the blanket I was hoping to finish before I died.

But today had been … explosive.

“I’ll clean it up,” I promised as I started frantically tidying the tornado of glitter and glue that covered the newspapers I’d laid out on the kitchen table.

Cal, calm as ever, walked over to the kitchen counter and set the bags down. He caught me around the waist as I washed my hands, turning my body and pinning it against the lip of the sink as he kissed me.

His lips were gentle, kissing me as if he knew I needed to be grounded with physical touch. Callum wrapped me up in a bear hug, cradling my head against his chest. “Ran into Hutch at a scene right before I got off. He told me about your night.”

“I’m fine,” I sniffed.

Callum cupped my cheek, gently stroking it with his thumb. “Honey, none of us are okay after shifts like that.” His radio squawked with chatter from dispatch, and he reached up and turned it off.

“I’m good. I have a day off before I go back.”

“Layla.” His voice left no room for argument. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he swiped the pad of his thumb down the bridge of my nose, wiping glitter away. “What do you need, honey?”

“Cal,” I said, scolding him. “I thought we talked about this. I’m not a Creeker that you have to babysit.”

“No,” he countered. “You’re my…” His voice trailed off like he didn’t quite know how to finish that sentence. Truthfully, I didn’t either.Fake fiancé? Girlfriend? Temporary roommate with benefits?He pecked the tip of my nose. “You’re my girl. And that means I’m a hell of a lot more protective of you than the rest of the Creekers. So, tell me what you need, or I’m gonna go overboard.”

* * *

We convened in his bed,sitting side by side and eating takeout from the Mule while watching Mark Wahlberg, Charlize Theron, and Jason Statham plan a gold heist. Cal’s uniform had been tossed recklessly on a chair. I had grabbed one of his shirts and a pair of boxers, using the thin excuse that I didn’t want to walk three feet across the hall to get my clothes from the guest room.

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