Page 97 of All of Me

The question hits me square in the chest. I swallow hard, forcing myself to answer. “I didn’t, bud. I’m so sorry. Work ran late, and I couldn’t get there in time. But I promise I’ll be at your next game, okay?”

There’s a pause, and my heart clenches at the thought of him being disappointed. But then he says, “It’s okay, Dad. Mommy said you were working really hard.”

“Yeah, I am,” I say, my voice thick. “But I’m always thinking about you, Barrett. Always. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he says, his tone lighter now. “Oh! And I got a trophy! Mommy said I could put it on my shelf.”

“That’s awesome, bud. You earned it,” I tell him, wishing more than anything that I could’ve been there to see him hold it up with that big, proud grin of his.

We talk for a few more minutes, Barrett rattling off every detail of the game—how the coach high-fived him, how he slid into second base even though he didn’t have to, and how his team got pizza after. Each word is a bittersweet reminder of what I missed, but hearing his happiness eases the sting.

When he finally says, “Okay, I gotta go,” I smile, even though my heart aches.

“Okay, bud. I love you so much,” I tell him.

“Love you too, Dad!” he says before the line goes dead.

I lower the phone, staring at the blank screen for a moment. As much as I love this life with Callie and the girls, there’s no escaping the fact that part of me is missing whenever I’m not with him. The distance between us is getting harder to bear.

I step back into the kitchen, where Callie is kneeling next to Ruby’s play mat, gently wiping her chubby cheeks with a soft cloth. Ruby giggles, the sound light and pure, as Callie murmurs something to her, her voice soft and full of love. The sight makes my chest tighten, a bittersweet mix of gratitude and guilt.

Callie looks up at me, her green eyes immediately honing in on my expression. Her laughter fades, replaced by concern. “Everything okay?” she asks, standing and brushing her hands on her jeans. Her voice is gentle, but it holds that edge of knowing, like she can see right through me.

I nod, forcing a smile that feels wrong, too tight on my face. “Yeah,” I say, the word heavy and hollow. “Barrett’s happy. That’s what matters.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. She steps closer, her hand on my arm, the warmth of her touch grounding me even as it threatens to unravel everything I’m holding back. “You’re a great dad, Owen,” she says, her voice steady, full of conviction. “Don’t forget that.”

Her words hit me like a lifeline, but they also twist that ache in my chest that refuses to go away. I want to believe her, but the weight of everything I’m not doing, everything I’m missing, crushes me like a lead blanket.

“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. I reach up to rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension that’s settled there. No matter how much I try to push it down, the guilt and the doubt gnaw at me relentlessly.

Callie watches me, her brows knitting together as she searches my face. She doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for more than I’m ready to give, but her silence feels like an invitation, a space for me to say what’s really on my mind. The problem is, I don’t know how to say it.

I glance at Ruby, now babbling happily on the mat, her tiny hands grasping at the air. Sara’s crayons and drawings are scattered across the table, the evidence of the life we’ve built here, one filled with love and laughter and all the chaos that comes with raising two little girls. Part of me feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.

“I just…” I start, then stop, my throat tightening. Callie tilts her head, waiting patiently, and the openness in her expression makes me want to spill everything. How do I tell her what’s been eating at me without making it sound like I regret this? Because I don’t. Not for a second.

“What is it?” she asks softly, her hand sliding down my arm to take my hand. Her fingers intertwine with mine, her grip gentle and firm, like she’s trying to anchor me.

I take a breath, the words sticking in my throat. “I hate that I missed his game,” I finally say. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s part of it—a piece I can offer without unraveling everything.

Her face softens, and she squeezes my hand. “I know,” she says. “But Barrett knows you love him, Owen. He knows how hard you’re working.”

“But is that enough?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. My voice cracks, the vulnerability sharp and raw. “Is it enough for him to just know? Because I’m not there, Callie. I’m not there for the games, or the school pickups, or the bedtime stories. Every time I miss something, I feel like I’m failing him.”

Her eyes fill with empathy, and she steps closer, her other hand coming up to rest on my chest. “You’re not failing him,” she says, her voice firm. “You’re doing everything you can. And when you can’t be there, he’s surrounded by people who love him and remind him how much you love him too.”

I nod, but the knot in my chest doesn’t loosen. The truth is, it’s not just about the missed moments—it’s about the distance. The constant push and pull between the life I have here and the life I’m trying to hold on to with Barrett. As much as I want to keep it all together, I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

I glance at Callie, the woman who’s turned my world upside down in the best possible way. The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. The question that’s been haunting me for weeks rises again, unbidden: Am I asking too much of her? Should we build a life here, when every part of me is being pulled back to Cedar Bluff? Would she want to move, for me?

I press a kiss to her forehead, holding her close for a moment. Her arms wrap around me, her warmth seeping into the cracks I’ve been trying to hold together. “I love you,” I whisper, the words carrying all the weight of everything I can’t say.

“I love you too,” she replies, her voice soft and steady.

I close my eyes, letting myself breathe her in, letting the chaos quiet for just a moment.I am struggling with this, but one thing is clear: I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose her, but the thought of bringing up the possibility of moving, of asking her to uproot her life for me and Barrett—it feels impossible.

thirty-five

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