Page 116 of Boiling Point
“I wouldn’t know what to say.” He drew in a breath and continued before I could reply. “It’s odd—I’m perfectly happy delving into string theory, complex quantum entanglement, or working out the mathematics of a universe with twenty dimensions. But dying? A universally natural part of the human condition? It doesn’t feel real yet. Or maybe it does, but the wrong parts do.”
Cal’s words hovered there, thoughts unfinished. He held me as if I were the axis of his world and he wasn’t sure whether to spin or simply hang suspended.
I let the silence fill up with the sounds of his slow breaths and the muted tick of the ancient clock on the dresser. The last time I’d felt this particular brand of ache, I was perched on the foot of my dad’s hospice bed, watching the shadows lengthen on thewall, waiting for a future to start that I couldn’t for the life of me imagine. The awkwardness of impending loss was so specific—so metallic and cold—that it seemed to filter into the very air in the room. I could almost taste it here now, in England, nestled against Cal’s ribcage.
“When my dad was nearing the end,” I finally said, “I didn’t think or act or feel like I thought I was supposed to. Cold as it is to say, I was ready for it all to be over so that I could finally move on. I mentioned that to the hospice chaplain, and his response has stayed with me to this day.”
“What was it?”
“He said, ‘In an abnormal situation, any response is normal.’” A beat. “That’s the only useful thing anybody ever told me.”
Cal didn’t answer. At least, not with words. Instead, he kissed my forehead—gentle, reverent. With a quiet exhale, he eased me off his lap and onto the bed, just long enough to shrug out of his dressing gown. He slipped beneath the covers and drew me in, curling his body around mine with a tenderness that undid me all over again.
He reached across me and flipped off the lamp. Darkness swept in, soft and complete. The strength of his arms around my waist anchored me more than words ever could.
And in that silence, held tight against his chest, I finally let myself believe we were still us.
Chapter 41
Callum
“So, is this what you want?” I asked, one hand anchored at Gabrielle’s waist as I spun her across the makeshift dance floor. She felt right in my arms. Around us, guests mingled beneath fluttering bunting and tall hedges, late-afternoon light gilding everything in gold.
“You mean for a wedding?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I drew her into another turn, her dress flashing a shimmering pale blue in the sun, and let her answer unfold at its own pace. She was exquisite in motion—shoulders bare, hair pinned up in that whimsical mess stylists spend hours perfecting.
Isabel’s reception whirled around us in full gloss: linen-draped tables on the east lawn, waitstaff weaving through clipped boxwood and peony borders, silver trays held high. Champagne flutes sparkled in the light. Silk lanterns swayed from the marquee ceiling like moons caught mid-rise. Even the air was curated—gin and sweet vernal grass, strawberries steeping in Pimm’s, and beneath it all, that deep green note of loam that only an English summer could summon.
“I could give you all this, if you wanted,” I said. “The pageantry, the spectacle, the perfect venue—though perhaps notBranleigh Park.” I glanced toward James, deep in conversation with some pinstriped relic. Caroline, perched on his arm, nodded at all the right moments. Born to ingratiate. I turned back to Gabrielle. “Once James takes the helm, I doubt I’ll be welcome. Maybe for my funeral, though probably not even then.”
“Is it really that bad between you?”
“It is,” I said, drawing her closer. “But James is the last person I want to think about right now.”
She smiled—small, private, wry—as if she’d already drafted a hundred versions of this conversation and tucked them away in her back pocket.
“Is this whatyouwant, though?” she asked.
Sunlight caught the blue of her dress, flashing it nearly silver.
“You’re stalling,” I said. “Try again. Do you want a wedding like this?”
She angled her head, scanning the crowd—old men in tailcoats and women in hats you could land a pigeon on. Peacocks, the lot of them.
“It’s…beautiful,” she said at last. “Gorgeous, really. Every detail—it’s like something out of a movie. But for us? I don’t think I could ever be the center of all this.”
I sighed and leaned in, murmuring in her ear, “Thank God.”
“I figured something like this would be expected of you.”
I kissed her forehead. “Come now. You know me better than that.”
“So what wereyouthinking?” she asked. “For a wedding?”
“Well…I don’t much care to be the center of attention either. But a little excess can be fun. So…Vegas?”
