Page 70 of Love Me Stalk Me
Callahan is still there—standing against the door, arms crossed over his chest, silent and solid and so completely unmovable. The solid oak frames him like some kind of sentry, his presence towering, steady, and impossible to ignore.
He watches me, but not the way most people do—curious, cautious, or pretending not to look at all. No. He watches like he knows. Like he’s already mapped the fracture line running through me and is just waiting for the moment I finally come apart.
I turn away, pressing my fingers to my eyes, as if that’ll somehow stop the flood. As if I can still claw back some kind of dignity. But the tears wet my fingers instantly, smudging what little makeup I put on.
I was always called a crybaby growing up. My brothers teased me for it relentlessly—Matteo with his eyerolls, Luca telling me to suck it up, Nico awkwardlypatting my shoulder like he couldn’t wait to escape. My mom said I needed thicker skin. That the world wouldn’t be kind to a girl who wore her heart so openly.
Their voices echo in my head now, reminding me of every reason I should have kept it together.
And Evan?
Evan says I cry too much. That it's manipulative. That it's exhausting to deal with. That I'm using tears to get my way when I don't have a real argument. That no one wants to be around a woman who can't control her emotions.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe I'm pathetic.
Maybe that's why he thinks I need fixing.
And still—here I am. Unraveling in front of Cal. The last person I wanted to see me like this.
And he’s not even looking away.
I sniff hard, trying to hold myself together, wiping frantically at the tears that keep coming despite my best efforts. But then I feel his presence behind me, closer now though I didn't hear him move. He's like that—capable of such stillness, such quiet, despite his size. The air shifts as he approaches, carrying his scent, his warmth.
And then, softly, "You did nothing wrong."
I let out a shaky breath, my hands still covering my face, my shoulders hunched as if trying to make myself smaller, less visible.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fresh tears leaking through despite my efforts. The warmth of them tracks down my cheeks, dripping onto my collar.
Because I know that. Intellectually, rationally, I know that. But hearing him say it? Hearing him sound so sure? It makes my chest ache with a strange mix of relief and pain. Relief that someone else sees it, that I'm not crazy for feeling hurt. Pain because acknowledging what happened means facing truths I've been avoiding for too long. It means admitting that this relationship isn't what I'd convinced myself it was.
I scrub at my cheeks, wiping at the tears as fast as they come, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I'm fine."
I'm not fine.
And I think he knows it.
But I say it anyway.
Because I have to.
Because it's what I always say.
Because if I pretend hard enough, maybe it'll be true. Maybe I can convince myself as easily as I've been trying to convinceeveryone else.
His voice is quiet but firm. "They're assholes. Both of them. Men who think they can do whatever they want and never have to answer for it."
I turn to him, eyes still wet, cheeks flushed with emotion, voice still shaky with the effort of controlling it, and say, "One of those assholes is my boyfriend."
His expression doesn't change right away.
But I see it—the moment of recognition. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly, like he's disappointed but not surprised. The subtle shift in his posture speaks volumes.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, quiet and composed. "You deserve better."
I laugh, a short, bitter sound that catches in my throat. Because what else am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you? I know? You're wrong? The words are simple but they pierce through the defenses I've built around my relationship.
