Page 5 of Hate the One You're With
Instead of hanging up, I decide to push forward and see if they know him there. “I’m looking for my . . . Is Caleb . . .?” My voice trails off, and I cringe inwardly. What am I supposed to say, ‘Is my husband available?’
“Who are you looking for again?” The voice remains polite but now with a hint of confusion.
“Caleb,” I repeat, clearing my throat and willing my nerves to settle. “Caleb Cunningham.”
“May I ask who’s trying to reach him?” The question is routine, but it still makes my pulse spike.
“Umm . . . Emmersyn Langley,” I say, my tone shifting to something more assertive, as if saying my name with confidence will somehow make this less awkward.
“He’s not available,” she says flatly, with a touch of professional exasperation creeping in.
I take a breath, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “How can I reach him? This is a pressing matter.”
“Urgent?” she asks, her tone still polite but edged with a bit of wary skepticism.
“Yes,” I respond quickly. “It’s a life or death matter.” Okay it’s not, but maybe she’ll transfer me to him right away.
“As I mentioned, he’s unavailable, but if this is as you said, that important, I can forward your message to someone who can help. Can I have your call back number and any details that might help expedite the process?” she asks, her tone suddenly more professional, even urgent.
What process is she talking about? I have no idea, but as long as Caleb gets the message, I’m good with it. I quickly rattle off my phone number and add, “Tell him his wife needs to speak with him ASAP.”
“Wife?” she repeats, the surprise clear in her voice, but I hang up before she can ask any more questions.
Chapter Three
Caleb
I takea step off the plane, and the familiar scent of Boston’s crisp air hits me as I take my first breath of freedom in three months. The bustling airport is a far cry from the remote locations I’ve been working in recently, and the noise, the movement, the sheer normalcy of it all are oddly comforting. It feels good to be back—really good.
Maybe Ethan and Max were right.Coming to Boston first, where I have my friends, was a smarter idea than heading straight to San Diego. There’s not much waiting for me at home, and after so long away, it’s probably wise to ease back into civilian life with the people who know me best.
As I descend the steps from the plane and reach the tarmac, I spot the company car already waiting for me. The driver steps out, nods in greeting, and opens the door with a practiced efficiency.
“Where to, sir?” he asks, his tone respectful but familiar.
“The hospital,” I reply, sliding into the back seat. “I want to meet the new McCallister bundle of joy.”
The driver smiles, holding the door open for me. “Yes, sir. Congratulations to Mr. McCallister.”
“Thanks,” I reply as I slide into the back seat.
The driver closes the door behind me with a soft click, and we pull away from the tarmac. As the car glides onto the road, I settle back into the seat, feeling a mix of anticipation and relief. Heading to the hospital first feels right—celebrating new life with friends is exactly the kind of normal I need right now.
Earlier today, Zoe, Max’s fiancée, went into labor. That was one of the reasons I decided to come back. The other was something about an emergency—or at least that’s how it was framed. Either way, they thought it’d be wise for me to be here, so here I am.
Max has been keeping me in the loop since I boarded the plane. My niece was born just a few hours ago, and he’s been sending me updates ever since. The last one was a picture of a tiny newborn with a tuft of dark hair and a bow, captioned,Mom and baby princess are well.
I’m happy for him, but when I asked for the name of thelittle princess, his response was classic Max—ridiculously vague.You’ll find out when you get here, was all he texted. He called the babyhis little life-changing, surreal creature.
I have to admit, I never would’ve imagined that Max would find someone who could change him for the better. I seriously thought Zoe was going to break him, but nope. They complement each other in ways no one could’ve predicted.
When the driver pulls up to the hospital, I glance over and say, “Thanks for the lift. I’ll text you when I’m ready to head out—shouldn’t be more than an hour. If you could take my things to the executive apartment, that’d be great.”
“Of course, Mr. Cunningham. I’ll take care of it,” he replies with a nod.
I step out of the car, taking a deep breath as I approach the hospital’s entrance. The automatic doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and I’m immediately greeted by the sterile scent of antiseptic and the quiet hum of life inside.
I stride through the lobby, the sounds of muted conversations and the distant beeping of machines filling the air. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a bright, almost harsh glow on everything, and the cool, polished tiles reflect my silhouette as I move.
