She bobs her head, nodding. "Riiight."
Callie looks down at Snoopy. "He's still doing the post-loss pouting thing, huh? I figured as much."
I leave the door open for her, turn around, and walk back into my living room--face-planting back onto my trusty couch. He'll never let me down.
I can't see her, but I feel it when Callie follows me into the room.
"So, apparently my parents never bothered to replace the mattress in my bedroom . . . ever. And it's only going to take one more night for the springs to actually puncture my spine."
I grunt in response.
"Colleen is with them now, and while I'm sure you have lots of sulking to do, I thought maybe you'd want to leave the pit of despair for a few hours and . . . come shopping with me? It'll cheer you up."
I roll over. "Wait, let me check."
I slide my hand into my pants, cupping my junk.
"Yeah, I still have a dick. Why would shopping cheer me up?"
Callie's eyes roll behind those thick, long lashes.
"Because, McGrumpy-face, I thought you may want to help me break in the new bed, after we set it up in my room?" She throws her arms up from her sides and sighs mockingly. "Buuut, if you'd rather stay here . . ."
I'm intrigued.
"A bed, you say?"
Callie nods.
"In your room? The one with a door? And . . . without your parents?"
"Yep." She pops her p, making me stare at her lips, her mouth. I fucking love Callie's mouth. "What do you think, Garrett?"
And she looks so damn cute, and sexy and sweet . . . my cock's cheered way the hell up already. And my frown turns around into a grin.
"I think we're going to get you a kickass bed, baby."
~
I call my brother's cell, so we can borrow his pickup truck. When it goes to voicemail, we head over to my parents' house. On the way, I glance over at Callie, her hair lifting in the breeze of the open window, her eyes lighting up when I beep, and she waves to Ollie Munson. There's just something so good, so fucking right about seeing her in the car next to me--after all this time--that fills my chest with a peaceful, settled sensation. I thread our fingers together, holding her hand for the rest of the drive.
"Callie!" My mother engulfs her in a hug. They were close back in the day--sitting together at my football games, having Betty Crocker chats in the kitchen. My mom was pretty wrecked when we broke up. For years, every new girl I started hanging out with got the "not as (fill in the blank) as Callie" stamp of disapproval.
"Look how beautiful you are! You haven't changed a bit. Doesn't she look beautiful, Ray?"
"Beautiful," my dad grunts, staring at the television remote in his hands like he's disarming a bomb as he changes the batteries. "Good to see you, sweetheart."
"Thanks, Mr. Daniels."
Then he fixes his crusty, disapproving gaze on me.
Here we go.
"Your boys got crushed last night, son."
Moral support was never his strong suit.
"Yeah, Dad, thanks. I was there. I know."
"Your quarterback's playing scared. He's got no confidence."
"I'm working on it." I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. I look to my mom. "Is Connor around? We need to borrow his truck."
"No, he went by the house to see the boys. It's not his weekend, but he had the afternoon off so he wanted to spend some time with them."
It's like a frigging scavenger hunt around here. While my mother pours Callie a cup of coffee and they start talking about all things San Diego, I try my brother's phone again. Still a bust--straight to voicemail.
So, a little while later, Callie and I pull up to Connor's stone-front behemoth of a house. His pickup is in the driveway, the blue spruce he planted the first year they moved in is growing in the front yard, and his German shephard, Rosie, is barking in the back.
But inside . . . all hell is breaking loose.
Before we get to the front door, I can hear Stacey and my brother arguing, yelling, their voices overlapping in sharp, angry verbal slashes. But their words are drowned out by the roar of a . . . chainsaw? Is that a chainsaw?
I look up at the upstairs window, half-expecting to see Leather Face staring back at me.
In the foyer my nephews look like they don't know where to go first--like three baby bears who've lost their momma.
"Uncle Garrett!" Spencer runs to me. "Dad's freaking out--he's chopping the house down!"
And the sound of the spitting chainsaw roars louder.
"What the hell is going on?" I ask my oldest nephew, Aaron.
"Dad took us for ice cream," he explains, his face tight and flushed. "We were supposed to go to the park after, but Spencer got a stomachache so we came home early. And Mom was here . . . with Mr. Lawson."
"He's her new friend," Spencer says, all round-eyed innocence.
"He's Brayden's basketball coach," Aaron adds quietly. "They were upstairs."
"He ran out the back when Dad got the chainsaw from the garage," Brayden finishes.
Jesus. Out of the four of us . . . Connor's the fucking calm one.
"Wait here," I tell the boys, then take the stairs two at a time.
Inside the bedroom, my brother's just finished sawing off the last post of the four-poster bed and he's getting to work on the footboard.
Stacey waves her arms, her dark hair flying around her face. "Stop it! You're acting like a psycho, Connor!"
My brother just squints behind his safety goggles. "You want to screw someone else--knock yourself out. But it's not gonna be in our bed. That's where I draw the line."
Zzzzz . . . boom . . . and down goes the footboard.
"Hey!" I cup my hands around my mouth. "You two geniuses realize you've got three kids downstairs?"
Only they're not downstairs anymore. They shuffle through the doorway, staring at what's left of their parents' bed and getting a front row seat to the Jerry Springer-level marital dysfunction.
My brother switches off the chainsaw. But Stacey still screeches, 'cause that's how she rolls.
"Tell your brother that! He's decided to be Super Dad all of a sudden, even though he was never there for me!"
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"I. Was. Working!" My brother pushes his hands through his hair, making it stick up at every angle. "I'm a doctor. When I get called in--I have to go, even if it's fucking girl's night out!"
And they go back and forth, hurling sins and grievances at each other like a tennis ball at Wimbledon.
Until Aaron's quiet, lethal words cut through the air.
"You are such a whore."
And all the oxygen is sucked out of the room. Like that vacuum sealing food preserver my mother uses. No one moves, no one says a word, it's silent.
Until the smack of Stacey's palm slapping Aaron's face rings out, sharp and cracking.
"Never speak to me like that again." She points at him, her voice trembling with fury, and heartache.
My brother yanks his safety goggles off his face. "Aaron. You can't talk to your mother that way."
Thirteen-year-old Aaron's eyes dart between his parents, filling with tears. "Are you serious right now? You're holding a chainsaw."
My brother glances down at the power tool in his hands, like he's just realizing he's holding it.
"Look at you . . . both of you . . ." Aaron's voice cracks. "Look at what you've done to us."
And this--this is why I don't have kids of my own. Why I probably never will.
Remember those egg assignments we all got in middle school? The ones where we had to carry around an egg for a week, take care of it like it was a real baby? It's a stupid assignment.
Kids are so much more breakable. Fragile. It's so easy to screw them up. With our own selfishness. Our mistakes and regrets.
I see it all the time. Every day.
My nephew swipes at his cheeks roughly and glares at the two people who gave him life.
"You're both assholes. I'm out of here."
And he rushes from the room.
"Don't leave, Aaron!" Spencer cries.
Stacey sobs into her hands and my brother moves to run after Aaron, but I cut him off.
"Let me. Let me talk to him."
Connor nods and I turn, meeting Callie's eyes. One of the best things about being around someone who's known you forever is . . . no words are needed.
She puts one arm around Spencer and the other around Brayden, ruffling their hair.
"Hey, guys, I noticed you have a treehouse in your backyard. I love treehouses--can you show it to me?"
Outside, I catch my nephew in the middle of the yard. He whips around, taking a swing at me. I bear-hug him, locking his arms at his sides.
"Let me go! Let me go!" He struggles.
"Easy . . . come on, Aaron, stop. You have to stop."