Collateral Damage (20 page)

Callie called. She called six times last night. She's called four times this morning.

The phone buzzes in my hand, but it isn't Callie's photo that pops onto the screen. It's my mom. I heave a sigh and let the call go to voicemail. Somehow I don't think my fiancée would appreciate knowing I answered a call from my mom when she's called ten times in the last twelve hours.

As soon as the message ends, I dial the number I memorized four years ago. Callie picks up on the first ring.

"Christopher?"

"Hey, Cal."

"Jesus, Chris! Do you have
any
idea how worried I've been?" she screeches. I pull the phone away from my head, ears ringing. "You haven't answered any of my calls! I called your parents and they hadn't heard from you. I thought we made a deal. When you took this job you swore you'd check in every day. You
swore
!"

"I know. I'm sorry, but something came up.... I shut my phone off early and forgot to turn it back on until...."

"You shut your phone
off
?" she interrupts.

"Just for the night. I have a solid lead, Cal. I didn't get in until really late, so I figured I'd call you in the morning," I explain. I head to the window, twisting blinds open. My view is of the parking lot. The Burger King across the street. Another cloudy day.

"I told you that I didn't care what time you got in, or what time you called," she says, words clipped. "If it's three in the morning—I don't care, but you can't do this to me! I can't sit here knowing you're out on the streets, not knowing if you're okay."

"It's in the job description," I remind her, voice rising. "There are late nights. Streets. Guns. Criminals. It comes with the paycheck!"

"I
deserve
a phone call," she replies firmly. "What I don't deserve is waiting up half the night wondering what you're doing and if you made it home all right."

My mind flashes to the night before—not hanging with Gianni and Dave and trailing Vince De Luca until all hours of the morning, but to Jaden. Jaden, who I let borrow Callie's helmet so we could cruise through the countryside after dark. Jade, who I talked to and teased and flirted with. Jade, who I can't stop thinking about, even while my fiancée is grilling me for not calling.

I did promise her, though. I promised to call her every single night. I promised that, no matter what was happening, I'd find a way.

Shit.

I rake fingers through my hair. "I'm sorry, Cal."

"I'm so tired of this," she says, voice breaking. "I'm tired of you being there and me being here. I'm tired of only seeing you on weekends, and lately not even then. I'm tired and I'm worried about you and I miss you like crazy."

I collapse onto the couch, pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to ease the persisting headache. When did things get so complicated? It's not supposed to be this way. It's not supposed to be this hard. "I miss you, too. Look, I have to go out again tonight, but I'll come up first thing in the morning. We'll spend the whole day together—whatever you want to do. Breakfast in bed. A movie. We'll work on our guest list. Our registry. The day's yours, I promise."

"You know I do brunch with my parents on Sunday mornings," she reminds me.

Brunch with her parents.

Mr. Donovan.

The muscles in my stomach tighten. "Then I'll meet you for brunch," I say, forcing a lift in my tone. "What time should I get there?"

It almost works.
Almost
. "You want to go to brunch with my parents?" she asks, disbelieving.

"Sure."

"You
never
do brunch. You've done brunch, like, two times since we started dating."

"Because that's you and your parents' thing."

"That's what you always say."

"Do you want me to go to brunch or not?" I ask.

She exhales a weary sigh. "Yes. I would love for you to, actually."

"So...I'm forgiven?"

"I'll think about it."

"I'm sorry for making you worry," I throw in for good measure.

"I'll think about it," she repeats, just before ending our call.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Callie intertwines her fingers with mine, eases closer, holds my arm. "Thank you for coming today," she whispers into the shoulder of my jacket.

We pause at the crosswalk, waiting for cars to pass. I glance at the sky. The clouds.

Where is the goddamn sun, anyway?

"My parents were happy to see you," she continues.

We just finished brunch at a restaurant downtown. Callie's father is an attorney. If there is such a thing as a good attorney, Callie's father isn't it. I respect him, but he's the kind of guy who could walk into a courtroom after months of investigation and ruin everything I've worked for. But then, he's the reason I am where I am today, so I guess I should be grateful there are people in this world willing to send losers back to the streets.

Callie Donovan is a paralegal.

Mr. Donovan pushed hard for law school. There were
many
heated conversations about this. I had the pleasure of witnessing a few of them—usually while sitting opposite Mrs. Donovan at their massive dining room table. Usually while trying to ingest an almost unpalatable, unpronounceable foreign dish when all I really wanted was a cheeseburger or hot dog. Dinners that always somehow ended with Mr. Donovan demanding I "talk some sense" into his daughter. But mostly I was the first phone call after the fact, where I'd listen to a furious Callie rant about how unfair her dad was between shuddering sobs. I quickly learned to let her go—to let her get it out of her system. Then, when she finished, I'd talk her off the proverbial ledge—promising her it would get better, that he would come around.

I was right.

She won. One day, right before graduation, while arguing that "paralegals do all the real work, anyway," she won. He relented. When she finished her program two years later, he offered her a job at his firm. She took one with the state, instead.

There's a reason I avoid Sunday brunch, and it has everything to do with Mr. Donovan. It has everything to do with the fact that I am not in some criminal database, attached to people like Vince De Luca, because of him.

"It was nice to see them, too," I reply.

We cross the street and enter one of those mega-bookstores. Even with hundreds of thousands of volumes under this single roof, all I can smell is coffee.

"I want to look at the magazines to see if anything new has come in," Callie says.

"You mean since last week?"

She laughs. "Yes."

I follow her to the side of the store, watching her browse shelves along the wall. There are dozens of wedding-related magazines. Wedding dress magazines. Wedding decorating magazines. Distance wedding magazines. Weddings on a budget magazines.

Callie pulls them off the rack, one by one, then sits on a nearby bench. "I just need to flip through some of these to see if they're worth paying for."

This could take a while. "Okay. I'm going to check out..." I glance over my shoulder, reading one of the signs, "Fiction and Literature, I guess."

"Have at it. I'll find you when I'm done."

I wander the aisles, perusing shelves, studying covers, titles. Some I recognize, most I don't. Stopping at the bookstore was never high on my list of priorities when I was in school. I don't know why. Mom had Nora and me signed up for the library reading program every summer when we were kids. Still, books were for nerds. Reading for losers. Who knew I'd eventually find myself in someone like Ethan Frome? Like Heathcliff. Like the phantom living under that opera house, making music for the girl he loves.

I pick up
Pride and Prejudice
from one of the tables, and that's when I spot it.

Ethan Frome.

It's a hardcover—a collector's edition—with fancy script and metallic lettering. The kind of book meant for display.

Jade and I both borrowed copies from the library. I've already renewed mine. I'm sure she's renewed hers. I flip the book over, checking the price.

"Shit. This gold better be real," I mutter.

There are two copies on the table.

It could be a sign.

If I believed in signs.

I tuck one in my arm and pick up the other, opening the front cover, turning pages over. It's beautiful. It would be a nice gesture—to get her one. She would never expect it.

And I can almost see her—us—in my mind.

I slide the book across the table.

"What's this?" she asks, reaching for it, examining the cover. "
Ethan Frome
?"

"I saw it at the store and thought of you."

"You were thinking of me?" she asks, eyebrow lifting.

"Possibly."

She runs her slender fingers along the cover, forehead creasing. "It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful," I return.

She glances at me, face flushing. She tucks her hair behind her ear. "Thank you. I love it." She rises from her chair and circles the table, moving closer.

"Find anything?"

I jump, jerking to reality at the sound of the voice, at Callie standing next to me.

"Um, yeah. I just...I don't get this book," I reply, lifting
Pride and Prejudice.
"I mean, what's the appeal?"

"Did you read it?"

"We read it in Hockman's class," I remind her.

"I know, but did you actually
read
it, or did you read some watered-down internet summary of it?"

"I read...it...and maybe a watered-down summary. But I don't get Darcy. He was a douchebag."

"Yes, he's kind of a douchebag at first," Callie agrees. "But that's because he's cautious. He has this role he's trying to fulfill—Master of Pemberley. In walks Elizabeth Bennet and...that's it. Caution be damned."

"Caution be damned?" I repeat, laughing.

"Yes. Anyway," she says, taking the book from me, "he eventually comes around. Does the right thing. Proves he's a good guy after all. He kind of reminds me of you in that way."

He eventually does the right thing. Like, not sneaking around, offering girls who aren't his fiancée rides on his motorcycle. Not thinking about this girl who isn't his fiancée. Wanting to buy her books. To tell her she's beautiful.

"Are you saying I'm a douchebag?" I ask, trying to ignore the guilt simmering in the pit of my stomach.

"You have your moments. So are you gonna get this?" she asks.

"Might as well."