“That is the last thing you left with me,” he says quietly. “I should have asked the tattoo artist to include someone shooting the damn thing out of the sky, right? There probably should have been a lot of blood. Would have been a better representation.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.” I wince at the tattoo he made out of my scribble, hating the fact that he had it traced over, line for line. It was a messy, rushed moment when I was distracted, trying to tell him something awful. I’d been away for two weeks in New York at the Institute of Fine Arts. Or at least that’s what Callan had thought.
“Why not?” Callan leans against the car, preventing me from opening the door. Blocking my way is a well thought about move to stop me from running, but he makes it look like he’s just getting comfortable so we can talk. So we can catch up, like old friends.
“Because. You were supposed to forget about me. You weren’t supposed to get a permanent reminder.”
“Is that what you did? Forgot about me?” Callan’s never been one to mince his words. He stares at me, linking us with this fierce connection that makes my toes curl inside my shoes. He smiles a humorless, unhappy smile. “I didn’t think so. You didn’t need a tattoo to be haunted by me every single goddamn day, did you?” He holds up his wrist, showing me the offending ink after all. “I didn’t need this to be plagued by memories of the past, Coralie. I have my own brain for that. I couldn’t have forgotten about you even if I’d tried. The seas could have frozen over. The heavens could have come crashing down to earth. Time could have stood still, and I would never have been able to cleanse myself of you.” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down on it in that same way he always used to, and my entire world pivots on its axis.
I’m not over him. I never have been. I never will be.
But I can’t be with him.
I place my hand on top of his squeezing firmly. “I have to go, Cal. I really, really have to go.”
He dips his chin toward his chest and looks up at me from underneath his drawn brows, his eyes narrowed. “This isn’t the last time we’ll see each other, bluebird. We’re gonna run into each other over the next week or so. Port Royal’s a small town. We share friends.”
“We used to. I don’t know anyone here anymore.”
“So that’s it? You’re not going to see Shane or Tina?”
When he speaks their names, it’s as though he’s setting bombs off inside my chest. I haven’t thought about those guys for so, so long. I haven’t wanted to miss them. But as soon as he mentions them now, I’m overcome with a wave of nostalgia. “I don’t think so, Callan. I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
Callan pulls a face, his expression filled with anger and disbelief. “That’s fucking weak. Those guys were there for you back in the day. They miss you, haven’t seen you in over a decade, and you’re not even gonna go visit them?”
“What would be the point? The person they knew way back when is dead and buried. She died a thousand, awful, painful, heartbreaking deaths before she eventually just didn’t come back to life. They wouldn’t even know me now.”
He leans in close, and I can’t even think straight. He smells different. He never wore aftershave or cologne before, but now he’s wearing something that seems to accent his own natural scent, filling my head, making it difficult to concentrate. “I fucking know you, Coralie Taylor.” He stabs his own chest with his index finger. “I fucking know you. I took one look at you back in that library and I knew you. I always have and I always will. That’s never going to change. You can run away for ten years. You can change your hair…wear different clothes…but there’s not a damn thing you can do to hide your soul from mine. It’s far too late for that.”
Coming back to Port Royal has been awful thus far, but this moment right here? This is one of the worst moments of my whole life. Because Callan is right. We joined our fates together so long ago, fused our lives together in such an irrevocable way, and I know there’s no way I’ll ever recover from it. I can’t allow myself to be with him, and so I know I’m destined to feel like every relationship I embark upon is a half measure. A compromise. A shadow of what it could be if I were with him. I’ll never be able to give my heart to anyone else, because Callan Cross still has it and he doesn’t seem willing to give it back any time soon.
“Just let it go, okay. You and I both know there’s very little point in rehashing this. It doesn’t get either of us anywhere,” I tell him.
“Bullshit. It would get me very far. And having a five minute conversation with me would iron out a few kinks in your life, too, I’m sure.”