Page 39 of Keepsakes and Kismet

I feel my jaw drop slightly. Callum is conventionally hot. Thick auburn hair you can run your hands through, dreamy hazel eyes, freckles, muscular frame. I’d imagine a line of women would be knocking on his door.

“Why?” The question flies out of my mouth before I can put a filter on it. “Sorry. That’s personal. You don’t have to share.”

He exhales a long breath before angling his body to face mine completely. “I’ve had some mental health stuff I’ve been dealing with for a while now. Sometimes, just going out is a lot. Like putting on a ‘happy face’ when I’m not feeling happy. I’ve been working on it in therapy, and I’ve been making a lot of progress.”

If it wasn’t confirmed already, now I know for sure: Callum is a trier, through and through.

My grandpa was big on the concept of “trying.” Whenever I became frustrated, like I couldn’t do something, he’d say “as long as you’re a trier, Peyton, it’s enough.” Trying doesn’t always mean helping. Sometimes trying means getting help. And I know therapy takes effort. It takes trying. It comforts me, knowing that Callum takes care of himself. That he tries.

And his reaction to all of this, to what just happened, is proof that it’s working. He didn’t seem afraid, or threaten to do something on my behalf. The go-at-my-pace calm that he’s maintained this whole time… It’s been more than anything I could’ve asked for. More than I’ve received in the past. And I want to give him something, too.

“Me too. I go to therapy. And, even though it might not seem like it, I’ve made progress. I’ve done small exposure therapies, and I’m more comfortable around men now. Well, more comfortable than I was before.”

“You don’t have to justify your progress to me. I believe you,” he says softly.

My heart swells, and my mind starts wandering to what my life might’ve looked like if I had this kind of validation in my past. But then, I might never have come to Waterton, never have met Callum.

I can’t change what happened. And even though I feel calmer right now, there’s still an underlying feeling of disappointment. A certain frustration that I’ve been robbed of experiencing the rest of the gig panic-free with Callum. Before the incident, I was so… unwound around him. Like I could finally let my guard down with a man. And I want that feeling—and some agency—back.

I wonder…

“Can we try something, Callum? Would you, um, touch me? On my wrist.”

A bit of bravery battles my nerves, leaving me cautiously confident. I want to replace the feeling of Paul’s touch with Callum’s. I want it to be Callum. I’m asking for it to be Callum.

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I don’t want to cause you more…” He searches for the right word. “…pain. You, um, won’t run away?”

“No, I won’t run. Honestly? I’m more likely to throw up.”

Yikes. I meant for my tone to be funny, but the grains of truth buried within it didn’t quite land. I give him a weak smile.

Callum shrugs. “Eh, it’d be okay if you did. I have that extra change of clothes in my car, and I’m really sick of looking perfect anyway.”

I chuckle, feeling more at ease. “Yeah, well, if I do vomit, I give you full permission to throw up on me as retribution.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Really kind of you, but I don’t know that I’d consider throwing up to be a prize.”

“And I don’t know why we’re still talking about throwing up. Fuck—I’m so sorry. I’m being weird.” I cover my face with my hands before peeking out between my fingers.

He throws me a lopsided grin. “If you’re being weird, then I’m being weird, too.”

“Okay. We can both be weird.” My posture relaxes.

“Do you still want me to touch you?” Callum asks softly. His eyes are honest and imploring, and his body language exudes calm. It might be my favorite thing about him.

“Yeah, I do.”

Callum nods. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

He hesitates for a second before slowly bringing his hand toward my wrist. As his fingers move closer, I will myself not to flinch. He’s safe.

Even his hand has freckles on it, matching the ones dotting his cheeks.

He’s safe, I remind myself.

The tension between us feels heavy, wrought with big expectations.

You’re in control.