Reveal

The sad truth is I feel so lonely right now—I crave physical contact. I want to feel anything other than this…fear, hurt, anger. It’s all aimed at Da

My mom insists that I touch base with her regularly but I haven’t called in over two weeks, and I still haven’t told her that Da

I should tell Mom what’s happening, but it’s easier to tell myself that I’m doing her a favor by not burdening her with my problems. She has enough of her own; Dad had to give up work around a year ago because of his arthritis, so Mom is run off her feet. They downsized to a smaller house when I left for New York; there’s no room for me to go back even if I wanted to. I couldn’t even stay with Erin, she has a husband, twin two-year-olds, a dog, a rabbit and two cats to contend with. Adding me to her equation would be far too much. So I can’t tell them, any of them, it wouldn’t be fair.

The display on my cell reads 2:40 pm. Cal should be here soon; we made arrangements at breakfast. I’m not a morning person and have never professed to be anything other than a little bit of a cow before 10 am. I don’t function well without caffeine. Instead, I wander around in a state of sleep-induced semi-consciousness.

I was headed to the kitchen this morning to get my coffee fix when Callum stepped out of the bathroom and straight into my path. I probably would have noticed him if my eyes hadn’t been almost closed as I fumbled my way toward the kitchen, using the wall as my guide. My face planted straight into his damp, solid chest, making me stumble and stealing my a

He walked away, but not before ruffling my hair, much in the same way an adult does to a small child before he resumed his phone conversation. It took me a few minutes to recover from the sight of Callum Speight, shower-damp and almost naked. It was a fine wake-up call, and infinitely better than any cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.

By the time I’d washed and changed he was on his way out the door. He told me he’d be back to take me to my apartment, winked and told me to have a good day, pointing to the table as he left. He’d made me breakfast—coffee and croissants. It’s strange how the smallest gesture can feel so monumentally overwhelming. It was one small act of kindness, and I’m glad he’d walked away when he did—because I broke down and cried. Hot tears spilled over my cheeks and dripped into my coffee as I nursed it close to my chest. I remembered what my life used to be like not so long ago, and how quickly things can go from picture perfect to a horrible dream you can’t wake up from.

I suppose that’s the thing with pictures, they can capture one perfect moment in a day full of distinctly average ones, and immortalize it. Tricking you into thinking that all your moments were perfect, when in fact they were mediocre at best. Perhaps our pictures didn’t fool Daniel, the ones we’d hung around the apartment attempting to make it homey. Maybe they served as mementos for how unspectacular he thought our relationship was, and prompted him to make a change. Looking at images of us goofing around, seemingly carefree and content, I guess it would be easy to forget the daily struggles. Rejection letters from music execs, mounting bills, the little things that were almost insignificant on their own, but added up to big problems. Maybe he saw something different in those pictures than what I saw. Or possibly I’m just pissed that he bailed first.

Ringing pulls me from my pity parade down memory lane and snaps me back to the here and now. I drop my phone in my haste to answer, and it bounces unceremoniously off the corner of the table. The crackling noise of my screen as it splinters fuels my theory that I must have been a terrible person in a former life; why else would the Powers That Be dole out blow after blow on me? I scoop it from the floor and see the crack only spans the width of a quarter—not so bad. The positioning seems almost cathartic. My screen saver is a picture of Da

“Hello, Tweet? Tweet, you there? Hello?”

“Sorry, dropped the phone,” I tell Callum.

“I’m downstairs now if you’re ready to go?”

I quickly check my reflection in the mirror over the mantle.

“Be right down.”

I slide my cell into the back pocket of my ripped jeans, smooth out my tank top and grab my purse and keys. I twist my hair into a messy knot and hastily smear on a little lip gloss as I descend the stairs to the bar. It’s only because my lips are dry, it has nothing to do with wanting to look pretty for my boss, I tell myself.

There are two kinds of people in this world, those who love motorcycles, and those who don’t. I’m undecided. I did belong to the latter, but as I cling to Callum, my arms circling his waist, and my face pushed into the hard ridge of his shoulder, I’m begi

We pull up outside of my apartment building, and I throw my leg over the bike, pulling the helmet off and handing it to Cal. Mrs. Heckles is sitting by the entrance on a rickety old wooden lawn chair, wrestling with a bag of chips almost as big as she is, as I make my way across the sidewalk.

“She’s been on the pot again,” I whisper to Cal as he jogs to catch up. His eyes flick from mine over to Mrs. Heckles and back again. His brows are furrowed like he thinks he must have misheard me, but we’re right in front of her now, so he doesn’t ask for clarification.

I smile and take the bag of chips from her, then open them and pass them back. “Here you go, Mrs. Heckles.”