Callie’s eyes are so wide and joyful—her excitement becomes mine.
“Do you think your parents still have your old skates?”
“Are you kidding? They’re one step above hoarders—they don’t throw anything away.”
I tap her ass and sit up. “All right. Let’s go get them then—we’ll be the first ones out on the ice.”
~ ~ ~
And that’s how it goes—our life, here, together—for now.
We work, Callie helps her parents, we go to the movies and dinner. We go out for drinks with Dean and play Cards Against Humanity with Callie’s sister and her brother-in-law. Callie drops by the weight room when I’m working out with the team, just to say hi, and I swing by the theater during rehearsals, just to look at her. We cuddle with Snoopy on the couch and spend practically every second we can together.
One Sunday, I go out for my run and leave Callie sleeping warm and pretty in my bed. When I come home, she’s dusting the living room, wearing my old football jersey—and seeing my name across her back does things to me. She’s got her phone playing “Out in the Street” by Bruce Springsteen, and she’s bouncing and dancing and singing—as Snoopy barks along with her, running up and down the couch.
And seeing her—my amazing girl—here in my house, dancing with my dog . . . that does something to me too. And the words tear out of me, clear and true, and straight from my pounding heart.
“I love you. I really fucking love you.”
I don’t know how I lived without her for all those years and thought it was okay.
Callie’s head is tilted, watching me, and the sweetest smile plays over her lips. She throws the dust rag on the floor and jumps onto the couch, using it as a trampoline . . . to jump into my arms. She wraps her legs around my waist and her hands around my shoulders.
“I really love you too, Garrett Daniels.”
And then she kisses me.
Running her hands through my hair, making the best sounds. Things get hot pretty quick, and just a few minutes later Callie’s back is against the wall and I’m pulling the front of my running shorts down, freeing my cock, and sliding her silky underpants aside. And then I’m pushing inside her.
There’s the tight, wet squeeze that makes my lungs seize up and Callie’s breathy little voice as she sucks and bites my earlobe.
“Love me, Garrett. Love me, fuck me . . . love me forever.”
“Forever,” I swear.
My fingers dig into her ass as I pound into her—shaking the pictures on the walls. And Callie writhes against me, rolling those hips, going for it, getting herself off on me. She bites my bottom lip when she comes and the pain and high-pitched whimper in her throat send me flying over the edge with her. I curse as my ass clenches and my cock jerks, spilling deep inside her.
Afterwards, my heart gallops like a racehorse . . . I gotta work on my cardio more.
Callie looks up at me with glazed, satiated eyes . . . and then they flare, widening to the whites.
“Oh shit, you’re bleeding! I’m sorry.”
I run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting copper. And then I smile. “Best way to start a Sunday.”
~ ~ ~
Callie
By March, my parents’ soft braces are off their legs. They’re still going to physical therapy to strengthen their muscles, they still need to be careful and take it easy around the house, but they’re mobile again, driving again—doing God knows what in the Buick again.
The second week in March, Garrett and I fly to San Diego for the weekend for Bruce and Cheryl’s wedding. And there’s a wonderful, excited pulling sensation in my chest when we get off the plane and make our way through the airport. I love San Diego—the sun, the warmth, the smell of the ocean, the laidback friendliness of the people. It feels invigorating to be back.
Coming back to my apartment is a little stranger.
It’s a lot like coming back to your college dorm room after the summer break. It looks the same, but feels different—because you’re a little bit different than when you left it. I open the door and Garrett puts our bags down in the small living room, looking around, taking in the brand-new, plastic-covered beige couch—courtesy of Bruce and Cher—the white walls and throw pillows, a few matching gold frames, and the vase of glass lilies on the corner table.
“Looks like you bought out the whole Pottery Barn catalog, huh?” he teases.
I gaze around the room, trying to see it through his eyes. I’ve always liked a streamlined décor—neat, simple, elegant. But coming from the mishmash warmth of my parents’ house all these months, or even Garrett’s homey lakeside bachelor-chic place, my apartment feels bare in comparison.