Page 36 of Fall Wherever They May

“Sure. Yeah.”

We saunter to my backyard and sit across from each other on the patio furniture. I’m exhausted, but I start a small fire in the fire pit. “Back home, River and I loved to make fires and roast marshmallows with Tucker on the weekends.” I picture our quiet farmhouse and all of the memories we built there. Everything is different here. Bigger. Louder. More populated. “While our friends were off partying and living theirbest lives in high school and college, we were living our best lives creating memories with Tucker. You know, I wouldn’t trade a single minute.” I chuckle thinking back to when Tucker was six years old.

Cal listens intently, as if he’s mesmerized by my voice. “Tucker loved to stick the marshmallows into the fire, but as soon as the darn thing caught fire, he would drop the damn stick into the pit and run.” I shake my head. “Do you know how many marshmallows that boy wasted?” A laugh escapes my lips, and he lets out a chuckle. Then I think about how I’ve been living my life. “What’s ironic is, in life, I do the same thing. I’ve squandered so many opportunities out of fear, dropping that damn metaphorical stick, and running like hell.” I shake my head.

I remember what I said about not being pursued, and I wonder if that’s even true. Maybe men did pursue me, but I was too scared. Maybe I chose to ignore them even if it were subconsciously. Or maybe not, who knows? But what I do know is I’m tired of running. Remembering how River acted today towards Carter, I wonder if I’ve been doing the same thing since Jason.

“You know, you’re not the only one who runs. I can admit I do it too. But look at you now. Something big and scary came along, and you met it head-on. You’re not giving yourself enough credit.” He looks me in the eyes intently, and I avert mine. The sound of his voice and his sincere expression make my heart race. If it was daylight, he would be able to see the blush creeping up my neck and into my face.

“I made a promise to myself today that I would try to sort out my shit.” I whisper. I clear my throat. “But you didn’t come here for philosophical backyard confessions,” I chuckle.

He’s so damn easy to talk to. When it’s just us, I word vomit. He doesn’t want to hear about my problems. Why do I keep doing this?

“I like listening to you speak. I’ll admit your accent is hypnotizing.” He rests his hands behind his head, and fuck me, his rock-hard biceps bulge, making my mouth water.

“What? This backwoods hillbilly accent?” I exaggerate my accent and place a hand over my heart like a Southern belle. I laugh, trying like hell to draw attention from the fact that I’m sitting here checking him out. “What was it like where you grew up?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees while his eyes roam over my face. “Eh, it was cold,” is all he gives me. What the fuck? It was cold? That’s it? “I don’t really miss it much. I like it here in New York.”

“But New York is cold,” I counter.

“Not that cold,” he says vaguely.

I cover my mouth and let out a yawn. “You’ve had a long day. Why don’t you head on inside, and I’ll put this out.” He looks around, then stands from his chair.

“Water hose is over there,” I point to the right side of my sliding glass door.

“Look at your calendar tomorrow and let me know when you have free time; I’ll take you to buy Tuck’s equipment.”

I nod. “Thank you. Goodnight. Thank you for putting out the fire.”

“Sleep well,” he says, turning on the spigot.

Once I’m in the house, I trail up to my room and fall into bed, foregoing my latest romance novel. The only thing, or person rather, I can think of before I go to sleep is Callan Miles.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cal

God. This place smells like a grandma’s attic. The musty smell invades my senses as Aspen and I stand inside a thrift store. Racks upon racks of used clothing fill the store. Shelves and glass cases display old Halloween knickknacks and decorations as the holiday quickly approaches. I have no idea what we are doing here; this woman has more money than she could ever know what to do with, yet she chose to come here.

It’s morning, and the store is empty, sans the little old lady who looks to be in her eighties. I hand her a few hundred-dollar bills to lock the doors to the shop behind us until we’re finished with whatever this is.

“Why did we stop here again?”

As we pass a glass case, I tap a bobblehead black cat wearing a witch’s hat; the head wiggles and wobbles around. I look around, and a chill visibly runs through me as I take in all the used clothes. Aspen rolls her eyes, grabs my hand, and pulls me towards the men’s section.

“Don’t be such a name brand whore, Hotshot. We’re here because I want to be, and you’re going to be a good sport aboutthis. We’re playing a game. Capisce?” She laughs. “Okay. Now, close your eyes. And don’t peek!” She warns.

I didn’t come shopping with her to play games; I came with her today to help pick out Tuck’s hockey gear, since his first practice is this evening. For the past few weeks, since agreeing to sign him up for hockey, Aspen has been busy with work, and I’ve been in grueling practices. Our time to buy him gear has run out. When she gives me a pleading look and pouts her bottom lip, I relent with a sigh and close my eyes. Air hits my face, and I can only assume she is waving her hand in front of it.

“I’m going to guide you through the store, and you’re going to feel and grab.” She giggles.

“Feel and grab sounds like an interesting game, Firecracker.” I chuckle.

“Shut up,” she laughs. “Okay, start here; just run your hands along the clothes and pick out something.”

Aspen goes on to explain her ridiculous rules, then with my hand in hers, she leads me through the store. My fingers fumble along the racks of shirts, feeling the textures; I’m only allowed to touch the upper part of the sleeves. I can’t see the color or print, but I come across one that has the texture of a dress shirt and snatch it up. We do the same thing with the pants; the same rule applying. I feel for texture and pluck the hanger from the rack, handing it to her. When we get to the ties, I’m not allowed to do anything except touch the top part; it feels silky, so I point, and she removes the tie from the hook.

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