Calico

“Are you worried about seeing Paul again?” Callan asks. “D’you think there’s a chance you’re gonna walk through that door again and you’re going to fall madly in love with him again and forget all about me?”


“You know perfectly well that his name is Ben. And no, I’m not worried about seeing him. We haven’t been right for each other for years. And I’m a much stronger person now than I was when I left California. I’m going to pack up my things and drive on out of there without even looking back. What about you, though? What was yours called? Stevie?” I poke my tongue out at him.

“Rae. And Rae and I were never dating. We were just friends.”

“With benefits.”

The camera goes back into his pocket. He steps forward, cupping my face in both of his hands. “But I never saw her, Coralie. I never saw anyone but you. The first time we ever spoke, when you were buried under all of those books, sprawled out on the floor, I only saw you. You were everything. You still are. It took me a day or two to get over the hurt of what you told me, bluebird. But when I locked myself in my bedroom and developed those pictures you took, there was no hurt left. No room for anger. Just sadness for the things we went through, and a steel determination that neither of us should have to go through anything like that again. Do you promise me that, Coralie? God, promise to share everything with me now, no matter what?”

I try to dip my head, my eyes burning as I try to stave off tears, but Callan won’t let me look away. He ducks down so that we’re at eye level with one another, and I can see how much he needs me to give him this. Not because he doesn’t trust me. Not because he’s not being honest with me and he is still angry. He needs me to give this to him because he loves me, and when I hurt he hurts. He needs to know I’ll give him the opportunity to save me, even if my pride doesn’t want me to.

I nod, swallowing hard. “I promise. I swear.” He kisses me again, and this time it’s not the gentle butterfly kisses he was landing on me inside the bar. It’s deep and penetrating. He claims me with his mouth, our lips pressed together hard, his hands in my hair, his breath warm and labored. When he pulls back, he leans his forehead against mine, smiling softly.

“The present and the future can’t change the past,” he whispers. “But the passing of time makes the pain at our backs less severe. All we have to do is face forward and look into the light. Behind us may be dark, bluebird, but I know it in my bones. There are great things up ahead.”





EPILOGUE





CORALIE





Colorado





I rarely think about my time in Los Angeles. It seems so surreal now, to imagine that I spent so long there, living such a strange, muted life. I told Tina when I was back in Port Royal that I preferred working alone in my studio, never really seeing anyone from day to day, and at the time I believed that. That changed when Callan and I moved to Colorado, though. The house we bought overlooks the North Platte River, over an endless sea of forest and mountains, and I’ve started hosting artist retreats. People come from all over the country to stay in the tiny cabins we’ve had built on our land, and I teach them how to paint and draw. It’s far more rewarding than the solitary existence I used to live.

Callan still has to travel for shoots, but he’s home more often than he’s not these days. He’s stopped doing fashion photography altogether. He almost solely works for wildlife and nature magazines, which he seems to enjoy way more than the lifestyle and studio stuff.

We climb. We hike. We swim. We make love. We make love a lot. Being with Callan again seems to have awoken me sexually. I was a kid when I lost my virginity to him. Sex was so new and kind of overwhelming. I was always scared that I was going to do something wrong, that I wasn’t going to satisfy him. That isn’t a problem anymore, though. I know how to drive him crazy, and he knows how to tip me over the edge. We’ve spent hour upon hour exploring each other’s bodies, telling each other what feels good. We’ve spent so much time in bed over the past ten months that there technically shouldn’t be anything left for us to discover about each other, and yet whenever he lays his hands on me it feels new. Fresh. Exciting.

I’m sorting through my materials, reliving the last time Callan went down on me, shivering slightly, when I hear the front door slam downstairs. I jump, dropping a plastic container full of paintbrushes onto the floor, and they spill from the box, rolling across the bare floorboards.

“Bluebird!” Downstairs, Callan hollers out for me. I hear a loud thud and then two more thuds as he kicks off his shoes. It’s a habit of his—the wall in the entrance way is scuffed and marked from where he kicks his Chucks off and they hit the paintwork every time he comes home. “Bluebird, where are you?”