I can only see the back of his head, but I’d know him absolutely anywhere. Back when we were teenagers, he used to crop his hair close to his skull, so I could run my hand over the short spikiness of it, scratching lightly with my nails while he melted under the attention. I loved when he let it grow out a little, though. When it was just about long enough to start curling in thick, dark licks of hair that always made me so jealous. It’s like that now.
His shoulders are broader than they used to be. He was broad back when he was seventeen, but even then it was obvious he was going to be taller, bigger, stronger when he hit his twenties. Now I’m sitting here, staring at his back, remembering digging my fingernails into the first time I ever had sex.
I immediately want to clamber into the rental and get the hell out of here, but some morbid, cruel part of me wants me to suffer. Wants me to stand by the ivy-covered wall barricading the cemetery from the parking lot and spy on him like a creeper. I do it, leaning my elbows against the crumbling stone and the twisting fingers of greenery, ignoring the fact that my position is uncomfortable, allowing my eyes to drink in the sight of my soul mate.
My heart sings and weeps in equal parts.
Callan is talking, his shoulders moving up and down as he breathes deep and slow, and I wish I could hear what he is saying. There’s only one person he could possibly be talking to so comfortably in a graveyard, and that’s Jolene Cross. Over the years, I’ve been hit with successive waves of grief over the fact that I never got to say goodbye to Jo. She was still alive when I ran from Port Royal, though often confined to her bed and barely able to stand for long periods of time. I feel a sob forming in the back of my throat; I let it grow and ache there, but I don’t let it out. I allow the burn of sadness on the insides of my body these days, but never on the outside. It’s too much. Too much to remember. Too much to suffer through. Too much to stuff back down inside myself once I’m done feeling melancholy.
Callan leans back, supporting himself with his hands, which are planted in the grass behind him, and I find myself fascinated by the way his muscles twist around the structure of his arm, corded and strong. I think I see the black lines of a tattoo inching up the length of his right forearm but I’m too far away to see properly. He used to ask me to draw on him when I was a teenager. Hours spent with my tongue poking out of my mouth as I concentrated over concentric circles, caricatures and curlicues. He was my living, walking and talking notepad, and he never seemed to mind.
“Everything okay, Coralie?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the voice behind me. I spin around, and there’s Sam still in his workout gear, one eyebrow hooked into a curve. He was all condolences and if-there’s-anything-I-can-dos back in the rectory, but now that he’s caught me spying on people in the cemetery he’s looking a little rankled. As well he should, I’m sure.
“Sorry. Just taking a breather before I get back in the car,” I say. I shrug with one shoulder, trying to make out like I wasn’t just boring holes into Callan Cross’s back. “It’s so calm out here. Peaceful. With everything that’s going on at the moment, I just needed a quiet second to gather myself.”
Sam almost looks like he believes me. That is until Callan’s voice calls out, echoing in the most unnerving way around the small dell formed by the tall trees lining the perimeter of the cemetery. “Coralie?”
It’s been over ten years since I’ve heard that man say my name, and yet right now it feels like I just heard him say it yesterday.
You have to stay. What can I do to make you stay?
I instinctively fold in on myself, my shoulders pulling up around my ears. Sam frowns, peering over the top of my head to see who’s shouting my name. The frown deepens. “Do you know that man?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Well, he’s coming this way.”
My hands move frantically, scrambling to yank the keys to the rental out of my purse. “Thanks again for your time, Sam. I’ll be in touch with the information from the—”
A hand skates along the top of my shoulder, barely making contact, sending a violent wave of longing and pain through my body. Back when we were younger, Callan knew exactly how to touch me to make me fall apart. He could make me forget everything but him on a daily basis. Seems like he hasn’t lost that skill. “Coralie Taylor,” he says softly. “I knew you were close by.”
I close my eyes. Stop breathing.
I hear Sam introduce himself, and I listen as Callan talks behind me, his breath skimming over my neck and my bare shoulder blades. He always ran hot. Seems as though that hasn’t changed, either. I can feel the heat pouring off him, burning into me, making the tiny hairs on the back of my neck and the backs of my arms stand on end.