Page 97 of We Can't Be Friends

I don’t find the need to put on a mask around him. I’m allowed to be myself—messy, colorful, soft. And for the first time since Aaron, protected and cared for.

Seen.

With Callum, I feel seen.

It’s easy to forget that this is still all pretend. I know there isn’t an end date—when you move out?—and that our arrangement is to keep his mom off his back—her little check-ins are annoying—but there are moments when I wish it were real. Heartbeats that are real.

Checking the time, I realize I need to get moving. I promised my co-worker that we could hike Camelback at two before our flight.

There was also a text notification from Cal waiting for me. Opening it, I find a selfie of him and Tucker in his bed. That turncoat. I swear he likes Cal more than me nowadays. A message accompanies it.

CAL: See you soon, Mommy!

Is there such a thing as a mommy kink?

I respond, deleting my message a few times before saying screw it and sending it.

Can’t wait to see my boys

***

Your building should come with bell service

LIAM:I’ll mention it at the next community meeting

I’m being lazy and a girl who doesn’t want to have to be independent all the time. I know I can carry my own bags, but sometimes I don’t want to.

I tried calling Cal when I got off the train, knowing I could easily convince him to come downstairs to roll my suitcase onto the elevator and from the elevator to the front door. Maybe even up the stairs to my room—but he didn’t answer.

I purposely leave my bag out and in his way, hopeful about the stairs.

He’s not in the living room, which isn’t completely surprising. Cal spends a lot of time in his home office or bedroom.

“Okay, okay.” I fold over to pet Tucker after the sixth nudge of my leg. “I missed you too, good boy. Did you have fun with Callum? Yeah, I bet you did.”

Standing back up, I do a double take of the living room. It’s been rearranged.

Cal wouldn’t. . .

I scan the space again, and I notice a new piece of furniture in the corner.

Wait. . .

I take a few steps closer.

My eyes immediately become hazy, a layer of water coating them. I blink away the moisture before they can become tears—damn periods and making us emotional.

That’s my piano. Aaron’s piano.

But. . . but it can’t be. It was ruined.

Patting my face, then pinching my arm, I make sure I’m not dreaming.Not a dream, Chloe. I walk over to it, running a hand over the keys in disbelief.

How? Who?

Did Cal do this?

It looks brand new, wholly refurbished—better than when Aaron bought it from a new and used music store.

---