If it’s good enough for them to sit on, I guess it’s good enough for my boxes. Actually, these idiots would swim in contaminated waters if someone told them there was a six-pack at the end of it.
“Except an entire career in the ring!” Gannon splutters.
“Which is fake,” I remind him.
“Ha! Yes! Good one, Cal. See, I fucking told you.” Scott jumps on the couch, Tom Cruise-style, and starts shaking his ass.
“Will you two help me now? I have four more boxes out in the car. Be useful for once in your lives,” I joke.
“I only help people who are rewarding me for it. Like Amelie did this morning, when she—”
“I’m right here, you know that, right?” Amelie enters and Gannon shuts the fuck up.
“Hi, hottie.” He stalks over to her and lifts her right off the floor, then they proceed to make out. I clear my throat and they don’t stop, then Scott and I roll our eyes at each other. I am genuinely happy for them after skirting around how in love they were all this time, but my bitter, heartbroken side is pissed at the PDA.
“Seriously? This is what I have to come back to? It was bad enough when Austin and Taya were fucking like bunnies two years ago.”
“Um, don’t you dare. I’m in a forced dry spell due to long distance. You don’t want to piss me off.” Taya points at me as she walks into the room. “Plus, I’m nice enough to help, unlike these fools.”
“Now you know how we all felt when you and Bevan—” Scott catches himself and slaps a hand over his mouth, turning bright red.
Everyone in the room goes quiet, and embarrassment and shock slide down my neck.
I look up to the ceiling, imagining Bevan listening to all this through the floorboards. Shit, this is going to be way harder than I thought. Moving back in here was my absolute last choice, but one I had to make.
Eventually, like Dad said, I had to give up the ghost. It was easy to give up my single to the college, they didn’t ding me on moving out penalties or charge me rent even if I wasn’t living there. It was the obvious choice to give that place up and move back in here. But it doesn’t mean I like it one fucking iota.
Especially when I walk up the stairs, to the last door at the end of the hall, and have to pass Bevan’s open bedroom door. She’s sitting inside, facing out, as if she’s been waiting for me to appear. I shoulder past, using my boxes as a shield, as I enter the room that holds way too many memories. Honestly, it feels like they’re joking me.
Sure, Bev and I got freaky in our freshman dorms. We experimented in ways only kids who just moved out from under their parents’ roofs could. But this house was the first home we shared together. Yes, we had roommates, but it felt like we were more adult, like our relationship got more serious once we moved in here.
It’s also the place that saw the end of us.
My room itself is devoid of personalization, since I took everything with me when I moved out. It went empty last year, and I can make out the dust on the dresser and desk.
“You’re back.”
Bevan looks timid as I set my boxes down and turn to look at her in my doorway. This is an expression I’ve barely seen on her in all the time we’ve known each other.
“Yes. I couldn’t find a sublet.” My heart cries out to be in my shitty single dorm apartment right now.
“Callum, about the other night—”
“Forget it,” I clip out, turning to begin unpacking.
I don’t want to think about how I begged her to stop the hurt, how I’d been too weak to just walk off. Why had I stayed to talk to her? Why did I still need the satisfaction of our old patterns and all the toxicity that came with them?
A little voice whispers in my head, it’s because you still love her. I want to flit at it, crush the gnat spewing that bullshit.
“I was wrong to do that, and I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you, shouldn’t have opened old wounds.”
Her voice is small, meek. Again, another thing I’ve rarely seen from her. I’m so caught off guard by her apologizing without being forced into it that I actually drop the textbook I just pulled out of one of my boxes. It drops with a thud onto the mattress in front of me.
“You’re apologizing?” I ask, flummoxed.
Her black waves are piled on top of her head, and when she nods, the bun moves like it has a mind of its own. I notice her T-shirt then, one of my old soccer shirts from grade school that she must have stolen years ago. She’s still wearing my clothes. I don’t even know if that was intentional, because Bevan used to wear my clothes more than her own. I’ll never forget the first time she slipped one of my sweatshirts on after we had sex, the material reaching her knees. I was fully aware that she had nothing else on under there, and somehow seeing her in my sweatshirt was sexier than just having had her on top of me naked.
When she doesn’t explain herself further than a nod, I just say, “Thanks. I guess.”
A few beats pass and she’s still standing there.
“Did you need anything else? I need to unpack, and then I’m going to the library.” Anything to get out of here, even if I don’t need that much more time to study.
“You’re going to the library?” A laugh guffaws out of her. “I couldn’t pay you to go with me when we were …”
She trails off, crossing then uncrossing her long, tan legs as she leans against my doorframe. She was going to say when we were together, and she’s right, I hated the thought of spending time with her in the library.
“People change.” I shrug, that answer loaded with so many more meanings.
“They do, Callum. It’s going to be nice having you back, the boys have missed you. And I hope that with you being back … I hope I can show you that people do change. That I’m trying to do better than I have, and that maybe …”
Hope, so primal and sharp, nearly drips from her eyes. It makes me want to walk to her, to pull her into me and inhale the green tea scent of her shampoo. I long to shut the door, lock it, and make the noises Scott was alluding to when we were all downstairs. This is dangerous, being back here. All of that longing and soul mate connection shit comes back to the surface, and it’s hard to deny when Bevan is standing feet from me.
I sigh, essentially cutting her off. Because I know what she’s trying to hint at. Over the last year and a half, I’ve received dozens of texts from her. Crying about our breakup or wanting me back. I know they come when she’s drunk, when her defenses are down enough to allow her to grovel. I’ve never answered a single one. It has killed me not to, but I know nothing would change if I went back. She’s still the same woman with the same issues and fears that would be taken out on me once more.
“I’m moving back in. That doesn’t mean I’m giving us another shot. I hate to be harsh, but we were over long before I broke up with you, and nothing has changed since. Sure, I have hope that you can do better, but do it for yourself. I’m here because I have no other choice. Let’s not make it more uncomfortable than it has to be. I won’t lead you on, because I’d never do that. Which is why I’m telling you that me moving back in here will not lead to us getting back together. I’m not going back there, Bevan. I hope you can see that I’m doing better without the negativity our relationship brought to both of us. I want that for you, too. Just know, this isn’t our second chance. After graduation, I really do hope to go our separate ways.”