Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins
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Mark was simply blank perfection.
“Callie,” Mark whispered, taking my hand.
I took it back. “You know what, Mark? You’re right. It is about you.” I took a throw pillow and clutched it against my stomach. “I want to be honest here, because it’s just dawning on me that I haven’t been honest with you. Ever, maybe.”
He pulled a face. “Don’t be silly.”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t been. The truth is, Mark, I … I was in love with you for years. A long time. Well before the Santa Fe thing.”
Mark opened his mouth, started to say something, then reconsidered. “Uh … okay. Go on.”
“Well, first there was high school, Gwen’s basement, all that.” He smiled a little, and I continued. “Then later on, ever since the day I interviewed with you, I just sort of sat there like some hopeful puppy, waiting for you to notice me.” Bowie yipped in support.
“Of course I noticed you, Callie,” Mark said impatiently. “I’ve always thought you were great.”
I snorted. “Right. But it took three years and a near-death experience for us to hook up. And the thing was, I didn’t mind. I was completely head over heels, and at long last, it seemed like you felt the same way. For a few days, anyway. When we got back, you got all squirrelly and I thought, okay, well, he just needs some time. So I waited some more, thinking any day you were going to realize you loved me, too.” I shook my head. “That night … the night you broke up with me, when you made that nice dinner—I actually thought you were going to propose, Mark.”
He looked at his hands, and a slight flush colored his cheeks.
“And then you gave me that bullshit line about timing.”
“Callie, that wasn’t bullshit.”
“Um … bullshit, Mark.”
He exhaled in exasperation. “All right, fine, Callie. Look. You and me … Santa Fe, that was a mistake. It was special, but the timing was wrong, and I should never have slept with you. I’m sorry.”
Even though I was over him, the words stung like little bees.
“But, Callie,” he continued, “that doesn’t mean you should quit! You love what you do. And you’re great at it!”
“I know,” I said. “I just … I just want something different now. And quite frankly, I don’t like the way Muriel’s steamrolled everyone at the agency. I just want to move on and make a clean break. I’ve wasted enough time on you, Mark.”
He shook his head. “I had no idea you felt this way,” he muttered.
“Yes, you did!” I barked, making him jump. “And you played me! You’re still playing me! Just tonight, you told me how special I was. You knew how I felt, and you used it, and you’ve been using it for years.” He shot me a guilty look, and I sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Mark, my grandfather died today, and to be honest, you’re the last person I want here. I quit. Please go. We’ll talk next week, okay?”
He stood up. “All right. But we’re not done. And I don’t accept your resignation, because I think you’re upset and sad and you shouldn’t make a big decision right now. Just think about it, okay?”
“I don’t need to.”
“Well … do it anyway.” He took a ragged breath. “Look, I didn’t mean to make your day worse, Callie. I just wanted to say how sorry I was about Noah. I know how much you loved him.”
That was always the problem with Mark. He was never all bad. “I appreciate that,” I said more gently. I got up and walked him to the door. “Thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome,” he answered, opening the door.
Ian stood on the porch, wearing scrubs and no coat, despite the cold autumn air.
“Ian,” I breathed. Bowie began crooning with joy.
Ian looked at me, then Mark. “I was in surgery,” he said hesitantly. “A dog was … well.” He swallowed. “I just got your message now, Callie.”
“I was just leaving,” Mark muttered. “Good night.” He trudged out to his car, got in and drove away, his taillights harsh in the dark night. Behind me, Bowie whined, then flopped on the floor, offering his belly for a rub, should anyone be so inclined.
“Is it too late?” Ian asked.
“For what?”
“For company?”
“Not for yours,” I answered, and with that, Ian wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on the forehead.
“I’m so sorry about Noah,” he whispered.
“Thank you,” I said, and he was so warm and strong and gentle that tears once again sloshed out of my eyes.
“Do you want to talk?” Ian asked.
“I just want to go to bed,” I squeaked, my face pressed against his chest.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he said. He’d never called me anything but Callie before, and it made me cry harder. Ian closed the door, said some kind words to Bowie, and led me upstairs, turning off lights as he went. “Need to brush your teeth or anything?” he asked.
“No,” I wept. “I’m all set.”
He tossed all my little throw pillows over the side of the bed and turned down the quilt. “In you go,” he said, and I obeyed, feeling so heavy and tired all of a sudden.
Ian pulled the covers up to my chin, then bent to kiss my hair. I caught his hand, and he sat at the edge of the bed, his thumb gently stroking the back of my hand, and the thought came to me that Ian McFarland would make a great husband, a great father, a great anything.
“I’m really sorry about last night,” I whispered.
“Well,” he said, smoothing back my hair. “Your heart was in the right place, I guess. I’m sorry, too.” He looked down at the quilt, traced a piece of fabric. “She’s never going to be easy, Callie.”
“I guess not,” I said.
“Are we done with that, then?”
I nodded.
“I thought you broke up with me last night, when you left,” he said, not looking up.
My breath caught. “Oh. No, Ian. We just … we just had a fight.”
“Okay.” He swallowed, and my heart seemed to swell abruptly.
“In fact, I was going to come over for some wild monkey make-up sex. But then I came home and found Noah, and … and … well …” My face scrunched up.
“Oh, hey,” Ian said, and honestly, nothing on earth ever felt as good as those solid arms around me. He pressed my face against his neck and let me cry.
“Can you stay with me tonight?” My voice sounded small.
Ian pulled back and looked at me with those summer-blue eyes. “That’s why I came,” he said simply.
Then he pulled off his scrubs and came into bed with me, holding me so close that my cheek rested over his heart. Within seconds, I fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE DAY OF NOAH’S burial was cold and gray. We gathered at the funeral home in the morning. There would be no church service, as per Noah’s orders … just two hours for a wake, then on to the cemetery.
In an oddly beautiful tribute, the River Rats had asked my mom if they could bring in one of Noah’s kayaks, which they set up behind the casket in the Serenity Room. The boat was one of Noah’s