Page 101 of Keepsakes and Kismet

Caitlyn nods. “You should go see him, if you want.”

I tug on the end of my hair, looping it around my finger. “I think he would’ve asked me to come over if that were true.”

“Sometimes I think he doesn’t know how to ask.”

I worry my lower lip. “You really think I should go?”

“I was actually going to stop by later today and drop off some dinner. I think he’d prefer to see you instead.” She pulls a key out of her pocket and hands it to me.

“I don’t know…”

“Look. We’ve never seen him put the kind of energy into healing as we have since you came along. I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t know my brother. He didn’t ask you to come over, because he thinks coping requires solitude. He still can’t comprehend that people want to help him cope. And I get the sense that you know helping someone heal isn’t an obligation—it’s a privilege.”

The key feels cold in my hand as I remember our conversation at the library. Callum said he didn’t want to tell me about the trigger at the Harvest Festival because he didn’t want to “bring me down.” Because he was embarrassed. Not because he didn’t want my support, and not because he didn’t trust me.

In the end, that guides my final decision. It’s simple once I boil it down. When someone I care about is going through something hard, I want to be the one they reach for. I want to make myself available to them as an option.

If I get there, and Callum wants to be alone, I’ll leave. But, if he’s anything like the man I know him to be, he’s minimizing his own needs for mine. And that’s something I’ll never do: let someone I love suffer in silence on my behalf.

I close my fist around the key. “Thanks, Caitlyn. This really helped.”

She pulls me in for a quick hug. “Thank you.”

Chapter 22

Callum

Unplayed Voicemails: (1)

The sheets are drenched in cold sweat beneath me as I lie on my bed in agony next to Zebra. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes, let alone pull a blanket over myself, so I’m downright shivering in just my athletic shorts.

A hoarse, dark laugh falls out of my mouth as I mock myself. Where’s your “progress” now? You thought you’d be “fine,” huh?

Ha. Fine.

More like pitiful, curled up in a ball, hiding away in my room like a coward. Maybe try tapping, my mind taunts. Maybe tapping will help you forget that you’re the reason for your own misery.

I try to shake that last thought out, awkwardly twisting my head against the mattress. Self-ridicule I can handle. Confronting my guilt, not so much.

It’s not like I deserve to feel better, anyway.

Everything is so heavy. Any reassurance or platitude I might offer myself is quickly overpowered by a mental jeer. And the insults grow teeth. For better or for worse, therapy’s made me more aware. Sometimes, it means I’m able to articulate how I’m feeling. Other times, it means I know how to annihilate my weak spots.

I’m alone, and I feel it.

“Callum?” A quiet voice—her voice—cuts through the darkness.

I’m so desperately in love with her voice that I could recognize it underwater.

What is Peyton doing here?

My throat feels sticky as I unclench my teeth to speak. “Pey?”

“Yeah, it’s me. You didn’t answer any of my calls, so I stopped in Caitlyn’s boutique. She told me it’s a tough day for you, so I came to⁠—”

“Cait told you?”

“No. She only told me that this week was the anniversary of a death. Which, if I’m being honest, I already figured out myself. I don’t know any other details.”