Black Obsidian (Obsidian 1)

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You didn’t know.”

Now I wish I did.

“I didn’t tell you this so you could treat me differently. I didn’t explain my past so you would be delicate with me. I assure you, I’m a happy person who feels lucky to be alive. Give your sympathy to someone who truly deserves it.”

No matter what she said, I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I didn’t look at her as weak. Quite the contrary. But the inexplicable need to protect her came forth. I wanted to buy her the world so she wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again. “And there was some asshole boyfriend in the picture too?” I probably shouldn’t have said that, but now my rage was doing all the talking.

She eyed me suspiciously until she figured out how I knew that information. She was on the phone at her office when I walked inside and heard her entire conversation. Instead of showing her anger, she kept it back. “You don’t want to hear about him.”

“As your boyfriend, I need to know.”

“When did we decide you were my boyfriend?” The fierce opponent I met in the bar was staring back at me. She wasn’t easily provoked, but she became very defensive when she was cornered.

I didn’t do the boyfriend thing, but I needed to be that for her so we could move on to something better—something greater. “The moment I laid eyes on you.” When I spotted her in that bar, I knew I had to have her. Maybe she didn’t feel the same way at the time, but within our first meeting, those feelings were there. The only reason why she hadn’t let me in was because she was scared. If she hadn’t been tormented in the past, we’d be in a much different place. “Take down your walls and let me in.”

For the first time during the conversation, her eyes softened.

“Baby, let me in.”

11

Calloway

“How is she today?”

Theresa walked with me down the hallway and into the room. The furniture was white with hardwood floors, and vases full of fresh flowers were placed everywhere. That was something I recognized from my youth.

And it reminded me that some things never change.

“She’s good.” Theresa opened the door to the balcony. The patio looked over the garden outside. Roses, lilies, and dandelions soaked up the sun and moved in the slight breeze. It was an unnaturally warm day for winter, even in Connecticut. I felt like I walked into a different time.

She was sitting in her rocking chair, knitting a scarf. It was covered in kittens with different colored bows. Slowly, she rocked back and forth, the creak of the wood audible under her light weight.

“Laura, you have a visitor.” Theresa kept her voice cheery, like this meeting was the most exciting one she would have for the day. “He’s from Humanitarians United, and he’s come to read to you today.”

She turned to me with her dark, curly hair, her blue eyes no longer clear, but covered in a heavy fog. She stared at me with indifference, not recognizing a single feature on my face. Like I was a stranger and nothing more, she turned away.

No matter how many times I saw the look, it hurt.

I took the seat beside her and opened her favorite book, Harry Potter. “I’m Calloway. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She stared across the fields, her hands still knitting. “Calloway… I like that name.”

Theresa eyed us both before she walked away and gave us some privacy.

“Thank you.” I opened the book and turned to the first page. “I’ve got a book I think you might like.”

“What is it?”

“Harry Potter.”

She arched an eyebrow and turned her gaze back to her knitting. “Never heard of it.”

I knew that would be her answer but it surprised me all the same. The hopeful side of me expected something different every time I came to visit. By some miracle, I hoped she would suddenly remember more than just her name. “I think you’ll like it.”

She finally stopped knitting and turned to me, her cheekbones high and her lips pursed in displeasure. “You’re a good-looking young man. Are you married?”

“Thanks. And no, I’m not.”

“No kids?”

“No.” Even without remembering me, she was disappointed.

“What a shame.” She started to knit again. “What do you do at Humanitarians United?”

“I’m the director.”

“Wow. That’s impressive.”

“Thanks…” It was all the pride I was ever going to get from her.

“So why are you reading to an old woman like me?”

“You aren’t old.” In fact, she was way too young to be in here.

She smiled. “That’s sweet of you to say, Cal.” Naturally, she called me by my nickname, how everyone referred to me. She picked it up just the way she used to, not breaking her stride.

“I guess I’m a sweet guy.”

“And you really aren’t married?”