Inseverable: A Carolina Beach Novel (9 page)

“Drop-down ceiling lights,” he answers. He walks around the counter and places a glass full of iced tea in front of me, taking a seat to my left. “But I can’t put them in until I’m done rewiring the house.

“Mmm.”

I lift the glass and take a big sip. As I swallow, all forms of death find their way into my stomach.

“The room’s too dark come sundown,” he continues. “So I figure―” He does a double-take when he sees me. “What’s wrong?”

I sprint to the sink and blast the water, trying to rinse the poison he’s given me from my mouth. Despite my valiant efforts, I can’t cleanse my tongue of the wickedness plaguing it. Callahan rushes to me, gathering my ponytail as I cough and gag.

“You okay?” he asks. “You sick?”

I glance up to where the glass remains perched on the counter, its contents appearing to mock me. “What did you give me?” I point to the glass. “What was in that?”

Callahan lets my hair slip from his fingers. “Sweet tea,” he answers, frowning. “You didn’t like it?”

No. It was brown-colored evil
. Of course, I don’t tell him that. “Um. It was filling.”

“Filling?”

He returns to the fridge and pours an extra-large helping of that crap into a large glass. “You know what your problem is?” he begins.

I have taste?

“You blow things out of proportion,” he says, lifting the glass. “Every time. All the time.”

I bat my hand out. “Oh, that’s just not true.”

He scowls and takes a big gulp. That scowl vanishes about the same time that tea comes right back up. Now I’m the one smacking his back at the sink as he coughs and spews.

“God damn,” he says, reaching for a paper towel to swipe at his mouth. “What the hell did they put in that piss water?”

I try not to laugh, but it’s hard.

“Christ,” he says, wiping his mouth harder. “I paid six whole dollars for that shit.”

“Now Callahan, what kind of self-respecting Southerner doesn’t make his own sweet tea?”

“The kind who never learned how,” he admits. It’s only when he turns to face me that I realize he’s smiling.

“How about I make us some? You have tea bags?”

“You want to make me tea?” he asks, like he doesn’t believe me.

“I don’t want to make you tea, I
have
to before that stuff kills you,” I say. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He smirks, but doesn’t say much, motioning to a set of double doors. I bounce inside a large pantry stocked with enough food to survive two zombie apocalypses, and possibly an alien invasion. “Oh. This is nice.”

“Better to be prepared than not,” he says.

I step out with the tea as he places a pan onto an electric stove set behind the raised counter. The stove is nice, modern, and barely looks used.

“I’m going to make some eggs,” he says. “You want some?”

I drop the box of tea bags on the counter and lean against it, examining him closely. “How about I cook for you?”

“First you want to make me tea, now breakfast? What’s next?” he asks, meeting my eyes in a way that halts me in place.

“Whatever you want,” I answer quietly.

It’s not what I planned to say. It just came out. Yet it’s only when he straightens that I realize I crossed that fine line we’ve been straddling between somewhat friends and maybe something more. For a long few seconds neither of us move. I wait for him, hoping he’ll kiss me, or at the very least lean in and meet me halfway. But like a giant piece of granite he stays in place, even though his breath grow more pronounced the longer our stares remain locked.

When I can't take it anymore, I push off the counter, using my hip to nudge a wedge between him and the stove. I want to feel close to him. I want him to touch me. But I want him, to want it, too.

Without meaning to, my backside ever so gently brushes against his front. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and I bite back a groan, my heartbeat quickening as the two of us stand less than an inch apart.

Callahan curls his body forward, his breath a warm whisper across my bare shoulder as his hands glide down my hips. For a moment, I think something is about to happen. Something good, sexy—something that will allow my moans to escape. But as his hands ease away, I realize I may already be too late to act.

He’s still close though, his breath continuing to tease my skin. I lift the pan and pretend to inspect it as if his reaction and our brief contact haven’t sent my desire for him racing full speed ahead. “This is a nice pan . . . Calphalon?” I ask, my voice gaining and odd quiver.

“Yes.” His voice is low, harsh, which does nothing to soothe my perky female regions.

It takes me a moment to form my words considering talk is the last thing I want to do. “Can you get me the eggs?” I finally ask. “Some butter, maybe spices you like?”

He swallows hard and edges away, gathering a bowl, whisk, eggs, and butter and placing them along the counter. He stays silent, keeping a very respectable distance much to the dismay of my very unrespectable thoughts.

The last things he sets down are salt and pepper. “I don’t have much in terms of spices,” he says, that tone of his oddly clipped.

What remains of my ardor quickly vanishes when I turn and face him. Instead of drawing closer, and meeting me with a kiss I so need, he backs further away―like he can’t put enough space between us―like he doesn’t even want me here.

“Do you have any cheese?” I manage.

He returns to the refrigerator and pulls out a block of cheddar and Colby Jack. Again, he’s not saying a word. It’s like he suddenly doesn’t know how to act around me, or if he should even bother.

For all I thought he might be interested in me, I’m not so sure anymore.

“How about some orange juice?” I’m mostly asking to keep him talking. To remind him I’m still here with him, and that just because he’s alone doesn’t mean he has to be lonely. “It’ll go nice with the eggs.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t verbally respond.

“Oranges?” I ask, feeling and sounding desperate.

He motions to the bowl overflowing with oranges. I rub my face, trying to shake off the misery digging a hole into my gut. It’s clear Callahan wants me gone. But I can’t bear leaving him. Not like this.

“Tell you what,” I say, dropping my hands away. “How about you shred me some cheese and I’ll make you some fresh squeezed juice. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You don’t have to,"  He lowers his chin. “You don’t have to do any of this, Trin.”

I’m not sure what he’s thinking. I only know that I’ve lost some serious ground between us and it’s killing me. Callahan is more damaged than I originally thought. He would have to be, given the way he’s afraid to get too close to me.

Taking careful steps so as not to overwhelm him, I inch closer and place my hands over his. “I want to. Will you let me do something nice for you? Please?”

“All right,” he mutters. It’s what he claims, but it doesn’t stop him from stepping further away and out of my reach.

I watch him fumble through the drawers for a juicer and a mandolin, disheartened by his withdrawal. He’s no longer making eye contact or speaking. And while he sets up beside me and begins his task, he feels so far away.

My mind insists that I shouldn’t push, so I don’t, busying myself by making the fresh squeezed juice I promised.

After years of cooking with my momma, I’m used to working fast and am comfortable in the kitchen. It doesn’t take me long to slice the oranges and pluck the seeds free from their centers. Callahan only speaks when he sees me ring the orange halves around the juicer, but even then he doesn’t face me.

“Do you want me to do that? You look like your struggling.”

He may not have been watching me directly, but it’s clear he’s stolen at least a few glances my way. “It’s okay. I’m tougher than I look.”

He continues grating the cheese, acting once more like I’m not standing directly beside him. I frown, determining he responds better to my asinine and obnoxious self than to my sweeter half.

All right. So be it, Batman.

I peer at the mound he’s created. “That looks good. Thanks. Would you mind getting some glasses? It won’t take me long to finish breakfast.”

Without so much as a sound, he washes his hands and reaches for two tumblers from the cabinet closest to the fridge. The juicer comes with its own pitcher. I top off to the rims the moment he places the tumblers on the counter.

“Thank you,” he says almost inaudibly.

I smile brightly. “No problem. Here, have some juice. Go on now,” I prompt. “After that run you’re probably thirsty.”

He rounds the counter and slides onto the stool, appearing to ignore me as I fill the teapot with water and place it on the stove. When I’m done, I crack six eggs into the bowl and whisk them along with some salt and pepper. He tries the juice and seems to like it. But I wait for him to lift his glass again before speaking.

“Thanks for being honest with me,” I say.

He stops with the rim just below his lips and lowers his eyelids, like he’s afraid to ask, but then he does. “About what?” he says.

He braces himself, as he should. “Oh, you know, about your one night stands filled with sin and debauchery.”

“There was no debau―”

“It was right nice of you to be so up front with me. But you know what?”

He slumps in his seat. “Oh, God, what?”

“I realize I haven’t been honest with
you
. At least not completely.” I add another egg to the bowl, ignoring his call to Jesus to help him. “The first guy I had―you know after that break-up I told you about? He was a nice boy―cute, too, bless his heart.” I stretch out my hands. “Thing is, he wasn’t built like a stud if you know what I mean.”

“Trinity―”

“Not even close. I can’t even tell you how embarrassing it was―for both of us, if you must know.”

By now Callahan’s rubbing his face like he’s in pain. Poor thing must have a headache. I sprinkle some cheese into the eggs and mix everything as I continue. “I mean, I didn’t even know it was inside yet.” I lift my head to find him glaring. “You know what I mean by ‘it’?”

With an agonized breath he opens his mouth, closes it, and finally mutters, “
Yes
, Trinity.” He snatches his glass and takes several big gulps.

“Good,” I say, nodding. “It would have been rude to say
dick
.”

I whip around, trying not to lose it when he starts choking on his juice. And while he probably thinks I’m certifiably insane, I’m having fun trying to draw another laugh out of him.

Call me crazy, but this rather, um, inappropriate conversation chips away at that miserable tension until there’s almost nothing left. I open his cupboards, fighting hard to keep my smile from shifting into laughter as I search for plates and prep for round two.

I take my time, giving him, and me, a second to settle before I pull two white plates from the cupboard and flounce to his side. I dismiss his scowl like it’s not even there and motion toward the glass doors leading out to the beach. “You want to eat outside? It’s pretty out.”

“Why the hell not?” he asks, his irritability causing his skin to flush.

Without another word, he takes the plates and gathers a couple of paper towels and utensils. I watch his fine ass―because hey,
it is
―twitch ever so nicely in those low-slung board shorts as he crosses the room and steps onto the deck.

He bends to set the table, those chiseled abs curving oh-so perfectly. The moment he’s done, he arranges the chairs so we both face the ocean. Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t want to look at me while we eat.

Nah. That can’t be it.

I pour the eggs into the pan and crank the stove. “You want toast with your eggs? I yell out.

“Yeah. I’ll get it.”

He sweeps back in and grabs a loaf of bread from the pantry. “How many pieces do you want?”

“Just one please.” In the time it takes him to toast and butter the bread, the eggs are done cooking. I follow him out with the pan and pass out our breakfast.

He’s lifting his fork to try the eggs when I say, “Now, the
next
one night stand I had wasn’t much better.” He drops his fork down with a
clang
and leans back in his chair, slapping his hands over his face.

I take a bite out of my food. Yum. Pretty good if must say. “Bless his heart too, he tried. But his moves―you know what I mean about ‘moves’?”

He lets his hands drop. “Yes, Trinity.”

“Oh, good. It would have been awkward to explain.” I point to his eggs. “Aren’t you hungry?”

I can’t quite make out what he’s thinking, as he’s back to glowering at me. Either way he leans forward and shovels a forkful of eggs in his mouth. He pauses, slowing to chew in a way that makes me think he’s enjoying the taste.

I wait for him to take another two bites, and one from his toast before continuing. “Anyway, like I was saying. His moves were all spastic. Like he was having a seizure or something. So being a teacher and medically trained―”

“You’re a teacher?” He says the words in that slow, deep way of his that always somehow manages to cut me off.

“Yes, sir. Double majored at Princeton in Spanish and Early Childhood Education—I just love kids, don’t you?—In fact, I’m scheduled to take my boards in two weeks.”

“
You
went to Princeton.”

I nod and pour him more juice. “That’s right. I’m not all good looks and charm. I’m also what some might call a genius. Well, I don’t know about that seeing how I have to work real hard to get the grades I do―but enough about me. Now, getting back to ‘seizure boy’ as my friend Becca―You know my friend, Becca? Lovely girl―likes to call him. I’m like trying to shove him off me and call 9-1-1 and save his life. Kind of like how I did for you the other night, but then he starts grunting. And I realize oh, he’s not seizing. Even though he’s doing this―” I put my fork down, lift my hands up and make jerky motions so he understands. “It’s just his, well,
moves
, that he apparently thought were pretty awesome. Me, not so much. More like a horny jack rabbit with a―”

“Seizure disorder?” Callahan offers (rather testily, I might add).