Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

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 the space 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—"

But he cuts me off.

"It's okay," he says, firm, certain, his deep voice leaving no room for argument.

And something about the way he says it, about the steadiness in how he looks at me, makes me believe him. Makes me think that maybe it is okay, that maybe I haven't completely embarrassed myself, that maybe he doesn't think less of me for falling apart.

I let out a slow, unsteady breath. Then, half-laughing, half-scoffing, I shake my head again.

"I don't mean to be unprofessional," I say, voice still shaky, hands gesturing vaguely, "but honestly, you wouldn't get it. I mean, objectively, look at you. The most beautiful women must throw themselves at you constantly."

His entire posture shifts.

I don't notice it at first.

But his shoulders go rigid, tensing beneath his shirt. His brow furrows and I look into his eyes. His eyes, always intense, darken with something I can't quite read.

And then, in a voice lower than before, rougher, he says, "I was engaged once."

That catches my attention. It's such an unexpected revelation, so personal, so at odds with the controlled, professional demeanor he always maintains. The confession hangs in the air, weighty with unspoken meaning.

He exhales through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest, a gesture that seems more protective than casual.

"So, I do get it," he says. "I've been dumped in probably the worst way possible."

His words tug at my chest, making me ache for him. Because Callahan is so...him.

Confident.

Unshakable.

Intimidating in his competence, his control, and in his sheer physical presence. The idea of someone throwing him away?

It doesn't make sense.

It shouldn't make sense.

And yet, here he is, standing in front of me, saying it like it's just another fact of his life. The vulnerability in the admission takes me by surprise, makes me see him differently.

I swallow, bracing myself for whatever comes next. My heart beats a little faster, waiting.

"What happened?" I ask softly, almost afraid to break the moment, to push too far into territory he might not want to revisit.

He's staring at somewhere else now, some far-off place in his head. His eyes are unfocused, looking past me, past the office, into memories I can't see. The lines around his eyes seem deeper suddenly, etched with old pain.

"I got orders to deploy. We knew it would be hard," he continues, voice measured, controlled, like he's reciting facts rather than sharing something deeply personal. "But we decided we'd try to make it work. I spent my entire savings on a ring. My enlistment bonus, too. Then I left. Went off to war. And while I was out there, she wrote me a letter."

I don't move.

I don't even breathe.

Everything feels suspended, waiting.

He lets out a slow, measured exhale.

"A Dear John letter," he says, the words flat, emotionless.

I frown, not recognizing the term. "What's a Dear John letter?"

He looks back at me, something heavy behind his eyes, something old and painful that's never quite healed. "It's what women used to send their husbands or boyfriends during the war," he says, voice carefully controlled. "A breakup letter. So by the time the guy got home, he already knew she'd moved on."

I swallow hard, a knot forming in my throat. The office suddenly feels too small, too intimate for this conversation.

I don't know what to say.

Tension rolls off him in waves, and when he speaks again, it's quieter, more measured, like he's choosing each word carefully. "Her letter told me she met someone else," he says. "That she was ending things."

Something twists in my chest, an ache of sympathy, of understanding. To be alone in a war zone, facing death daily, and get that news—I can't imagine the pain, the loneliness, the betrayal. The cruelty of it is breathtaking.

"But when I got back," he continues, the control in his voice slipping just slightly, "I found out she was pregnant." He looks at me and his eyes hold something fierce—like the truth still scorches every time he says it. "With his triplets," he finishes.

He gives me a small, sad smile. "Yeah. So obviously, she was with him before we'd actually broken up. The timing didn't match up. She'd already moved on. Already started a life with someone else. Already written me out of her story before I even knew the chapter was ending."

I shake my head, at a loss for words. "Cal, I'm—I'm so sorry."

He just shakes his head, dismissing my sympathy with a slight shrug. The movement is casual but doesn't quite hide the lingering hurt beneath.

"It was a while ago," he says, resignation in his voice. "I just didn't want you to think you were the only one to experience a shitty relationship."

I don't know what to say to that.

Because suddenly, it doesn't feel like venting anymore.

It doesn't feel like colleagues trauma-bonding after a difficult encounter.

It feels like something else. Something deeper, more personal.

Like something too raw, too real, too dangerous.

Like something I'm not ready to face, not when my entire life feels like it's balanced on the edge of a knife, not when I'm still trying to figure out what I want, who I am, what I deserve.

I take a slow breath, my heart still pounding against my ribs, hyperaware of his proximity. My skin feels electric, oversensitive.

And Callahan?

He just watches me.

Like he already knows what I'm thinking.

Like he can read every thought, every fear, every desire directly from my face.

And that?

That might be the scariest thing of all.

The sudden banging on my office door nearly stops my heart. I flinch, my whole body snapping to attention, the moment shattered by the intrusion. The loud pounding reverberates through the room, breaking the charged atmosphere. For a split second, I think Evan. But then I remember—he doesn't even know where my office is.

Then my brain goes to worse possibilities. Some irate customer, some intruder, some threat I can't yet identify. The adrenaline spikes through me, heart racing.

I glance at Callahan, at his broad shoulders, his steady stance, the way he's already turned toward the door, body shifting subtly to place himself between it and me. His whole demeanor has changed in an instant, alert and ready.

Yeah. Sure. Bring it on.

Because despite the loud, frantic knocking, despite the fact that someone is clearly determined to break my door down, I feel...

Weirdly calm.

Because next to him, I feel safe. Protected. Like whatever is on the other side of that door, whatever challenge it brings, I won't have to face it alone.

Then, through the door, I hear a familiar voice, high-pitched with indignation:

"IZZY OPEN UP RIGHT NOW, I'M READY TO COMMIT HOMICIDE IN YOUR NAME."

I let out a short laugh, tension draining from my shoulders, relief washing through me.

Callahan raises a brow, questioning.

"Amanda," I explain, shaking my head, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. "Let her in before she actually does something illegal."

My brain is already calculating exactly how to defuse whatever Amanda is planning. I've talked her out of five potentially illegal revenge schemes in the past year alone, using the same crisis management skills that help me navigate corporate politics. When your best friend operates with no filter and even less impulse control, you develop certain abilities—like knowing exactly when to distract her, when to reason with her, and when to just hide the sharp objects.

He moves toward the door, unlocking it with a smooth motion. The second it opens, Amanda bursts in like she's been waiting outside with a battering ram, her blonde hair flying, her eyes wild with righteous fury.

"I heard what happened," she says, eyes blazing, hands on her hips, her whole body vibrating with barely contained rage. "And I am fully prepared to unalive multiple people in your honor. Just say the word and I’ll make some calls. I know a guy who can get us industrial-strength acid and a barrel⁠—"

She stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing.

“Or we could go the old-fashioned route. You distract Evan, I push him down a flight of stairs. It’s elegant, it’s simple, it’s tragic⁠—”

Her gaze snaps to Callahan, finally clocking his presence, his proximity to me.

Then to me, noticing my red-rimmed eyes, the lingering evidence of tears on my cheeks.

Then back to him.

A slow, devious grin spreads across her face, transforming her expression from murderous to delighted in an instant. Her perfectly glossed lips curve upward, her eyes gleaming with interest.

"Ohhhh," she says, dragging the syllable out like she's savoring it, her eyebrows rising toward her hairline. "Sorry for interrupting."

I swear to God.

I want to die.

I want to collapse into a pile of dust.

I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Callahan, of course, is completely unbothered.

"It's no problem," he says, completely neutral, not giving Amanda anything to work with. His voice betrays nothing of our previous conversation.

Then he looks at me, his expression softening just slightly, just enough for me to notice but hopefully not enough for Amanda to pick up on.

"You good?"

I exhale, nodding, grateful for the simplicity of the question, for not having to explain or justify or analyze.

"Yeah," I say. "I think I'm good."

We just look at each other. A quiet, understanding kind of moment where words aren't necessary, where something passes between us that I couldn't name even if I tried.

Amanda’s watching it all happen, looking like the goddamn Cheshire Cat that also ate the canary, her eyes darting from me to him, cataloging every detail for later analysis. I can practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.

I ignore her pointed look, the way she's practically vibrating with questions and assumptions.

Callahan gives me one last look, then heads for the door, his movements smooth and controlled as always. The air seems to shift as he passes, as if the room itself feels his absence.

"See you later, Russo."

And then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving me alone with Amanda and the lingering warmth of his presence.

The second the door closes, Amanda whirls on me, eyes gleaming with a mixture of concern and excitement, like she can't decide whether to comfort me or interrogate me first.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"

I drop into my chair, suddenly exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the past hour. "Amanda⁠—"

"No," she says, cutting me off, marching toward me with determination. "Don't even try to play it off. That was A Moment. Capital M Moment. The kind of moment they write about in those books you pretend not to read."

"There was no moment." I try to keep my voice steady, convincing.

"There was absolutely a moment." She throws herself onto the couch like she's settling in for a drama series, crossing her legs and leaning forward, elbows on her knees. "Okay, give me the rundown. What the fuck happened out there? I heard bits and pieces, but I need the full story. From the beginning. Leave nothing out."

I rub my temples, feeling a headache forming behind my eyes. The pressure of my fingertips offers momentary relief. "I do not have the emotional capacity to relive it."

"Too bad, because I need every detail. And I can see from your face that something major went down, so spill."

I groan but give her the short version, summarizing Evan's behavior, Monroe's comments, and Cal's intervention. I leave out the part about crying in my office and about Cal's revelation about his ex-fiancée. Some things feel too private, too raw to share, even with Amanda. My words feel inadequate against the reality of what happened, like trying to describe a hurricane by talking about rain.

By the end of it, she looks like she's about to commit an actual felony, her expression shifting from shocked to outraged to vengeful in rapid succession. Her perfectly manicured nails dig into the couch cushion.

"Evan is a disease," she says, throwing her hands up in disgust. "A full-body, skin-rotting disease, and I need him removed from this earth."

I snort despite myself, a small laugh escaping at her dramatic phrasing. "Okay, dramatic."

"No, I'm serious," she insists, sitting forward on the couch. "He's like—the human equivalent of long COVID. Persistent, exhausting, and still somehow ruining lives years later."

I groan, dropping my head into my hands, but there's a smile tugging at my lips now. Amanda has always been able to make me laugh, even in my darkest moments. "Amanda⁠—"

"Like, they said he would only be around for two weeks, but here we are, three years later, still dealing with the symptoms."

"Okay, seriously⁠—"

"I bet if we check the CDC website right now, there's a booster shot specifically for Evan's bullshit."

"Amanda."

"We just need to find a Walgreens doing walk-ins. I'll drive. I'll even hold your hand if you're scared of needles."

"Oh my God, please stop." I shake my head, burying it into my hands before laughing despite everything. Amanda has always had this effect on me—the ability to make me laugh even in my darkest moments, to pull me back from the edge of despair with her ridiculous analogies and unwavering loyalty. Her presence is like sunshine after a storm, bright and necessary.

"You know I'm right."

I look up at her through one cracked eye. "Maybe let's try an emotionally healthy approach to dealing with it."

"Emotionally healthy?" She snorts, tossing her hair over her shoulder, the blonde strands catching the light. "Okay, therapist, I have a better idea—revenge."

My mind immediately runs through four different scenarios of what Amanda considers "revenge," calculating exactly how each would backfire and what it would take to bail her out of jail. The mental risk assessment is automatic—another skill honed from years of managing her chaos, of being the voice of reason to her impulsivity. The possibilities range from mildly embarrassing to federally criminal.

I groan, already dreading whatever she's about to suggest. "Amanda⁠—"

"No, listen. Here's what we're gonna do."

"I already don't like it."

"We are going out tonight."

I’m surprised by the simplicity of the suggestion. "What?"

"Girls' night. You, me, margaritas the size of our heads, and a pile of tortilla chips so big we legally have to sign a waiver before consuming them."

I hesitate, considering the offer, the tension in my shoulders easing at the thought. The idea of salty chips, tangy lime, and Amanda's unfiltered commentary sounds like the perfect antidote to this awful day.

Like exactly what I need—to get out of my head, to spend time with someone who knows me and loves me anyway, to eat and drink and forget about Evan and work and all the complications of my life, just for a few hours. To laugh until my sides hurt, to feel normal again.

But also, after today, all I want to do is curl into bed and pretend I don't exist. To wrap myself in blankets and disappear from the world, at least until morning. To process everything that happened, everything I learned.

And maybe talk to Caleb.

I immediately tell that part of my brain to shut up. To stop going there. To stop thinking about how hand felt on my back, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me, the way he shared his own pain to make me feel less alone.

Except that wasn’t Caleb.

That was Callahan.

Jesus. I did it again. I keep doing it—blurring the lines between the code and the man. Between the fantasy and the flesh.

The AI is a distraction, nothing more.

Amanda sees the hesitation in my expression, reads it with the accuracy of someone who’s known me for years.

“Don’t even think about bailing,” she warns, pointing a threatening finger at me. The obscenely large diamond on her index finger which she proudly bought herself catches the light as she gestures. “We are getting drunk. We are eating our weight in chips. We are talking shit about your ex.”

"We haven't broken up," I correct automatically, the words hollow even to my own ears.

"I said what I said," she replies, crossing her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Her expression dares me to contradict her.

"Fine," I mutter, already feeling a small spark of anticipation despite my exhaustion. "But you're buying the first round."

Amanda claps her hands together, victorious.

"Yes! Okay, get ready, bitch. We are going out tonight."