“We’re beyond five minutes, Cal. We’re beyond all of this. You should never have come back to Port Royal in the first place. You hated my father just as much as I did. I never thought in a million years you’d come back for this.”
Callan’s face goes blank for a second. He straightens up, pushing off of the car, finally moving out of the way. Taking a step back, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I needed you when my mother died, Coralie. I could have used you then. So, yeah. I guess I figured I’d be here for you, and if you needed me I’d be close by. I didn’t come here to pay my respects to your father. I came here for you.”
He removes his hand from his pocket, and he holds something out to me. “My number. I know you’re mad right now, but this place…this place does something to you, same as it does something to me. You’re going to need me at some point, when the weight of all our history presses in on you and you feel like you can’t breathe. When that happens, you should call me. Even if it is just so you can scream at me.”
I stare down at the rectangle of white card, not really seeing it all that clearly through my blurred vision. I don’t know how, but tears have crept up on me. I always planned on being here when Jo died. I always knew I’d be around for Callan, that I would hold his hand and carry as much of his pain as I could. It felt like my heart had been ripped straight out of my chest when I heard that she’d gone. I knew how badly I’d let her down. For weeks I thought about coming back here. The idea that Callan was suffering was almost too much to bear. But I was suffering, too.
I look away, clenching my jaw. Callan sighs heavily. He places the business card bearing his number under the windshield wiper of the rental. “Be careful in that thing, bluebird,” Callan whispers. “You never could drive stick.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
CALLAN
The Rule Of Thirds
THEN
“The rule of thirds is all about perspective. You can’t just slap the focus of your image right in the center. Not if you want a dynamic picture. You have to adhere to the rule of thirds. Composition is…whoa! It’s everything.” I stumble, manage to right myself, and then take a swig from the warm bottle I’m clinging to fiercely in my right hand. The beer inside the bottle is warm, too. Tastes stale and old. Next to me, Shane teeters as he tries to tightrope walk along the butt of the curb, grinning like a fucking moron.
“If you say so man.” He gives me a thumbs up.
“It’s true. If you angle the object or focal feature of the image down and slightly off to the right or the left, it gives the photograph—” I pause to burp. “Gives it…energy. Interest. Tension.”
“Oh, and you know all about tension, right? Of the sexual kind. Man, did you see how Tara McFee was giving you the come-fuck-me eyes earlier. I fucking hate you so much, you asshole. Her tits are, like, ridiculous.”
“So is her hair,” I counter. “She looks like she stuck her finger into a power outlet.”
“Who gives a fuck about her hair, Cal? You’d be too busy suffocating in those double Ds of hers to notice anything going on above her neck.”
I laugh at this, because I suppose it’s true. Tara McFee’s tits really are immense. For some reason, I didn’t care to stick around at the party and try and relieve her of her bra, though. I spent ninety percent of the night watching the door, waiting for someone else to enter. The little mouse from the library. I’m not all that surprised that she never showed, though. I’ve been aware of her existence for the past few years now, but I’ve never seen her out in social situations. She’s always sitting quietly somewhere by herself, head down, scribbling or studying. Usually both. I’ve caught a few of her drawings over her shoulder when I’ve been in the library. She’d never know it, of course. She’d never know that I think that she’s pretty talented. She likes to draw birds.
We continue walking, passing the beer back and forth between us until it’s gone, and then Shane throws the bottle down the street. He yelps when it smashes, sending shards of broken glass skittering like thousands of rough cut diamonds over the blacktop. We run—or amble drunkenly—down Main, laughing louder than is socially acceptable at three o-clock in the morning, and then we’re only four blocks from home.
Mom’s bedroom light is on.
“Fuck.” I dig my fingers into the side of my face, not knowing why it feels good, or why it seems to stem the panic I’m feeling right now. I’m about to get my ass kicked. “I’m about to get my ass kicked,” I tell Shane.
He pulls an awkward face, grimacing at me. “Damn, dude. Sorry. Sucks to be you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I hope your mom’s awake too, and she gets out the belt.”
Shane laughs, open-mouthed. Slapping me on the shoulder, he winks at me. “She’s been taking melatonin the past few months. Goes to bed at ten and doesn’t wake up ‘til morning. I could have a rock concert in the living room right now and she’d be upstairs, snoring like a log.”
“Screw you.”