Page 19 of Keeping You
Kirk makes a noncommittal grunting sound but signals the waitress for another round and hurries back to their table. Yeah, he’s definitely not comfortable with this situation.
Callie looks like she wants to puke. The color drains from her face so quickly, I worry she might actually be sick. This isn’t how she imagined this confrontation going; that much is clear from the way her shoulders have drawn up. I recognize that stance from interrogation rooms back in Chicago. That moment when someone’s carefully constructed scenario falls apart in real time.
It suddenly feels too crowded, with the scent of beer and perfume mingling in a way that reminds me of dive bars where nothing good ever happens after midnight.
But before I can say a word, Harper grabs her arm and practically drags her over, pushing her into the booth.
We squeeze into the small space; Callie’s thigh pressed snug against mine on the narrow bench seat. She’s tense, coiled like a spring, and I can practically taste the disappointment radiating off her. Her plan isn’t working quite the way she wanted.
“So,” Harper leans forward eagerly, “how did this happen? When did this happen? You’ve been back in town for what, a month?”
Callie’s face is white. Her jaw is tense. Kirk is looking a little more interested in the conversation, or in her specifically, but she’s not directing any attention whatsoever in his direction. I am though. What the hell did she see in this guy? What does Harper see in him?
“We just met up,” Callie says with a smile that could cut glass.
“Maybe this will be like a second-chance love story. Like something out of a movie,” Harper gushes. “Bad boy returns to town and falls for his sister’s friend. At least the age difference isn’t such a big deal now. Did you know she had a thing for you when we were kids?”
Callie places her hand on my thigh under the table, her fingers digging in just hard enough to leave marks. I cover her hand with mine, partly to play the part and partly to stop her from drawing blood through my jeans.
The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. Apparently, Callie never told Harper about our night together, so she thinks this year's hookup is romantic while Callie is using our fake relationship as a weapon. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here trying not to think about how good Callie’s hand feels on my leg, how her perfume is making me dizzy with memories of her.
In the noisy bar, the mostly one-sided conversation continues, forced and awkward, with Harper firing questions like she’s conducting an interview.
“So where did you first run into each other?” she asks, twirling her straw in her drink.
“Jogging,” Callie answers, her voice brittle as glass.
“That’s so romantic,” Harper gushes, though her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Reconnecting after all these years.”
What the fuck? Harper thinks jogging is romantic?
Meanwhile, Kirk nurses his beer, each sip longer than the last, saying nothing but watching Callie with an intensity that makes me want to punch him. His eyes track her movements. The nervous way she tucks her hair behind her ear, how she keeps rearranging the silverware. It’s the look of a man who’s lost something he thought was his.
I shift closer to Callie, sliding my arm along the back of the booth behind her shoulders, not touching but making a statement. Kirk’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Kirk puts his beer down on the table with a little too much force, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. The hollow thunk against the wood cuts through Harper’s latest question about whether I’ve run into Travis Kinkaid yet.
“Callie, can we talk for a moment?” he cuts in, sharp enough to silence Harper mid-sentence. There’s something in his tone—possessiveness mixed with desperation—that tells me everything I need to know about what really happened between them.
Harper’s smile falters, her eyes darting between Kirk and Callie like she’s watching a tennis match she suddenly realizes she doesn’t want to see the end of.
“We should dance.” Callie suddenly stands, bumping the table and tugging on my hand. “Come on, Luke. Let’s see if we fit together.” Her eyes widen a fraction before she spins away, probably remembering, just like I am, how perfectly we fit together.
The band has started their first set, a slow country ballad that’s got half the bar swaying together on the dance floor. I follow Callie’s rushed footsteps into the center of the crowd before slowing us down and pulling her into my arms as though we’ve done this a thousand times before.
But we haven’t. We had one night of fumbling passion in the back of a stolen truck. That’s it. There’s no muscle memory, nocomfortable rhythm to fall into. She’s stiff in my arms, going through the motions but not really there. Close enough that the heat radiating through that flowery dress is making my cock antsy, but her mind might as well be in another county.
I try to guide her with gentle pressure at the small of her back, but she resists even that small intimacy, like she’s afraid letting go even an inch will reveal something she’s not ready to face.
The country singer croons about second chances and roads not taken. Long ago, I memorized every curve in the darkness of that truck. Now, under these dim bar lights with dozens of eyes on us, she’s a stranger wearing the face of a girl I once knew.
“You need to relax,” I murmur into Callie’s ear.
“I am relaxed.”
“This isn’t working.”
“It’s working fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “Just keep dancing.”
