Page 40 of Keepsakes and Kismet

His fingers lower, ever-so-slightly, until they’re almost touching my skin.

This is it.

You’re ready.

I pull in a deep, slow breath.

And then I punch him directly in the face.

Chapter 9

Callum

“Holy shit,” I strain out, clutching my nose, which might be bleeding.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! I am so sorry!” Peyton reaches out as if to soothe me, but then immediately retracts her hand.

“No, no, it’s okay.” My words come out garbled, and a sheen coats my eyes. “Damn. You really got me good.”

“I can’t believe I did that! Are you alright? Should I call the police on myself?” Her panicked voice gets louder, a slight wobble in her tone.

I try to recover quickly from her assault so I can reassure her that I’m fine. Lowering my hand to glance at hers, I’m grateful to find that there’s no blood on either of us. Though, her knuckles look a bit swollen.

She groans. “Fuuuck, my hand. Is your face made of stone?”

“Just regular bones, I think,” I grit out, breathing through my mouth.

Peyton fans her face, which is beet red, and taps the side of her seat in the golf cart. “So… think this baby is highway-rated? Because I need you to drive me directly to the airport so I can fly to Sweden and never see you again. I’ve always wanted to go, and deep mortification is the perfect excuse.”

I sniff, wiping at my eyes. “Nah, don’t do all that. I’ll take you to IKEA. Same meatballs.”

My self-esteem and the center of my face are neck-in-neck in the race for what hurts the most right now. It’s hard not to think selfishly, to think it’s me that triggered her and not her aversion. My nose is still running, and I pull a tissue out of the kit I brought to clean myself up.

Peyton’s tone lowers. “I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t owe me anything, actually.” My words come out muffled behind the tissue.

She shakes her head. “I want to explain, then.”

“Okay.” I feel like I need to prepare myself for something heavy.

She knots a small piece of her hair, then releases it. “I used to love being touched. My mom and dad were older when they had me—I wasn’t planned. They took care of me, but they rarely took care with me. Whenever I saw my grandparents, though, they’d shower me with physical affection. Tight hugs, rubbed backs, pinched cheeks. It soothed me, made me feel love in a way that I hadn’t really experienced before.”

I nod slowly, but stay silent, leaving her space to share.

She tugs on the end of her hair now, looking past my shoulder. “When I was scouted by a pageant coach, everyone was thrilled to welcome this woman, who essentially became a third parent, into my life. It was fun at first, but there were so many eyes and hands on me. Stylists, coordinators, directors backstage. Unexpected and unwanted physical contact started to become something I resented. It felt like I was accessible to anyone and everyone, with no say in the matter.”

Peyton doesn’t start talking again, so I fill the silence.

“That sounds really hard,” I tell her.

“It was. Thanks for saying that.” She gives me a half-smile. “I started dating my last boyfriend during the thick of my modeling career. At first, his touches felt affectionate. Hugs, kisses… I craved them again after so many years of despising everyone’s hands on me. But then…”

I can feel the tension radiating from Peyton. I wish I could ground her in some way.

Her eyes lock on mine. “He started to change once we made things official. Only ever touching me in front of other people, at public events, in front of his friends. When we went out, he’d parade me around like a prop, but at home, he, um, ignored me entirely. I started to feel very on edge when it was just the two of us, like I did something wrong. Everything was just so unpredictable. I never knew when he was going to touch me, where, and how. Touch became a tool of control.”

I hum with understanding, but what I really want to do is gaze at her in awe. I know how hard this is, giving voice to your trauma, but she’s pushing through it like a champ. She must’ve put in a lot of work in therapy to be able to recount her story like this.