“What are you doing here?” I whisper urgently.
Callum shrugs and pulls the plastic lid off his cup of coffee. “I was thirsty.”
“There’s a coffee shop in our building,” I point out. “You didn’t need to walk all the way over here for a drink.”
He licks his lips languidly, and I follow the movement of his tongue. Then he raises the Styrofoam cup to his mouth, his eyes on mine. “I like the view better here.”
“Are you spying on me?” I ask. “Did you follow me here? Because that’s just…” I lose my train of thought. Instead I watch the way he holds his cup, remembering how I felt when he held me. His hands are big and strong, it’s very distracting.
“I want to make sure you’re safe,” he answers.
I wrack my brain to think of a reply but come up with nothing. A slow, ragged breath escapes my lips and I offer him a half-smile. “Thank you.”
He nods, looking over my shoulder. My father is back, sliding a tray full of coffee and cakes onto the stainless steel table, the legs beneath it wobbling. I twist back in my seat as he speaks. “I didn’t know how you took it, so I’ve got some milk and sugar here. Is that okay?”
Glancing one last time at Callum, I turn my back on him and look at my dad. It takes a moment for me to collect my thoughts enough to answer.
“White, no sugar. That’s how I take it.”
My father slides the cup across to me, being careful to pull his fingers back before they can touch mine. I take a cake from the plate he offers, placing it on a napkin in front of me. Neither of us speak as we add milk—and in his case three sachets of sugar—to our coffee, using the white plastic stirrers to mix everything together.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “Thank you for coming. I know this must have been a shock. Tina—your mum—told me what she said. That she told you I was dead.”
I bite my lip between my teeth, trying to remember the last time I felt this uneasy. Waking up next to Callum last weekend was a walk in the park compared to this. For reassurance I check that Callum's still there. He is, and it's enough to give me the courage I need to talk to this man who shares half my genes.
“She told me you died in Iraq. I thought you were a war hero.”
He flinches, as if my words have the power to sting. “I'm no hero,” he says. “But part of me did die out there. I wasn't the only one, a lot of us came home shadows of the men we were.”
I pick at the napkin in front of me, tearing off pieces and dropping them on the table top. “It must have been awful,” I murmur, more to break the silence than anything else.
“It doesn't excuse anything, Amethyst,” he replies shortly. “I know that.”
Finally I look up from the mess of tissue I've scattered all over the table top. “My name is Amy. Nobody calls me Amethyst.” I don't tell him how much I hate my name or how mercilessly I was teased about it at school. He wasn't there to protect me when I needed him, because he was the one I needed protecting from.
I give a little shudder, trying to erase the image of a baby with a broken wrist.
“Amy,” he says hesitantly, “either way it's a pretty name for a pretty girl.”
He seems so eager to please, desperate to talk with me. The little girl inside of me who was always so needy for a father stirs. “Thank you,” I reply.
“Tina says you're doing well at university, and that you've got a good job. Are you enjoying it?”
Behind me, I hear Callum shift in his chair. I'm desperate to look back again, to see what he's doing. Instead, I nod and try to hide my nervousness.
“It's a great opportunity,” I tell him. “I'm hoping it will help me get a good position when I graduate.”
“Have you always liked school?”
His question takes me by surprise. I pick up my cup, draining the dregs of my coffee before I reply. “I liked it until I was a teenager. After that...” I screw my nose up, remembering how awful it became after I was diagnosed with Scoliosis. For a year I had to wear a back brace and endure the taunts and jeers that only teenagers know how to deliver. It was only after I stopped growing—and no longer had to wear the huge, plastic molded contraption—that they finally calmed down. Even then, with one hip more pronounced than the other, and with posture that was always asymmetric, I still hated wearing tight clothes and swimsuits.
“After that?” he prompts.
“I didn't like it as much.” That's why I left school and took a job as a legal secretary, wasting three years of my life when I could have gone to college. That and the fact Luke thought university was a waste of time. What a fool I was.
“You spent a bit of time in hospital,” he prompts. “Your mum told me about your bad back.”
For the first time I realise Mum has told him a lot. How much time have they been spending together?