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Doesn’t want me.
I’ve got my favorite album, The Crossing, playing over my speaker, but even Adamson’s voice can’t heal me now. I rinse the remaining soap from my skin, revealing my clean-shaven face. I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I hear her before I see her.
Freya’s voice calls out over the song. “Stop, stop, stop! Don’t ye do it!”
“Too late,” I say.
“Too late!” Freya pops up in my peripheral vision. Panting and gripping the edge of the door, she blurts out, “Cheffie told me what ye were planning on doing?—”
I turn to face her.
Her bright energy fills the doorway. Ready for bed, she’s wearing black silk pajamas—pants and a button-down top. A white beauty mask is smeared all over her face, and her green eyes and pink lips peek out. Her long hair is wound up in a bun, held together with a massive silk scrunchie, but a few hairs have stuck to her face, covered in the thick, white cream.
Her jaw drops as she studies my face with a loud gasp. Finally, she shouts, “Jesus! Callum! What have you done?”
“Don’t talk like that, Freya. Mum would have your mouth washed out with a bar of soap.”
She messes with the buttons on my wall. “Turn this music off. I can’t even think!”
“Don’t, Freya!” But I’m too late, and the speaker cuts off. The room goes quiet. Too quiet. Leaving me with my heavy thoughts.
Ones I don’t want to think.
At least Freya’s scolding will be a distraction.
“Let me see.” She grabs my face, turning me toward her. Tsk tsk sounds come from her too-full lips. She shakes her head, releasing my face. “Fiona is going to hate it.”
I tap the razor against the sink, rinsing it under the water. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Course it matters! And we’re going to sort this out. Right now. Before you do something even crazier than what you’ve already done—shaving off your beautiful beard.”
Without asking if she’s invited, she pops her slim ass up onto my bathroom counter, sitting and swinging her bare feet as she watches me clean up. “What do we say about family, Callum Burnes?”
I answer her, giving her what she wants to hear: “‘Never give up on family.’ But she’s not family.” I dry the razor and put it away in the drawer.
Her eyes smile at me teasingly like we’re discussing a childhood crush. “You want her to be.”
“Aye,” I admit. “I did.”
She eyes her black toenail polish. “She will be.”
“Not anymore.”
She rolls her eyes at my dramatics, acting as if there’s nothing wrong between Fiona and me other than a tiny lovers’ spat. She doesn’t understand—Fiona’s left.
She’s gone.
And she’s not coming back.
I grab a clean towel and pat my face dry against the soft cotton.
“She’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Not only that, I’m starting to think Fiona might be the best thing to ever happen to this house. Hell, it’s not just you who misses her. I want her back.” She gives me a hard stare. “Scratch that. I NEED her back.”
Watching my reflection, I finish the task, my skin now smooth and dry. “She doesn’t want to be here. She could have stayed.”
“Why would she stay if you told her to go? Only a stalker would have stayed. Or a woman with no self-respect. If you say leave, we go.” She pauses for a think. “Specially a wallflower like our Fiona. There is no way she would have pushed back on you. You made the first move; you’ll have to make the next one, too.”
