“I always say the wrong thing at the wrong time.” He says this bluntly as if he’s had to say it before many, many times. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
“Whatever.” I blow out a biting sigh. “I’ll deal with it.”
Cal puts the guitar back on the stand. “I should…I guess I’ll go?”
“I need to go deal with her. She’s probably bitching about this to my dad as we speak.”
“Okay. I’ll get out of your hair, then.”
Cal stands awkwardly, like he wants to lean in to kiss me goodbye, but before he can, he straightens, puts his hands in his pockets, and walks up the stairs. He looks so…dejected, but I can’t deal with that at the moment.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say that my mom’s words stung. “You don’t want to model. You don’t want to act. You don’t want to sing. But here I find out you’re sneaking around, playing in some crummy garage band in Vegas?” It was nice that Cal stood up for me, suggesting that my band isn’t crummy. I’ll give him that. But why is it that my mom cannot simply be happy for me that I’m happy? That I’m fulfilled? Why must she always criticize all my choices?
Because it’s always about her.
And once again, as I’ve done so many times in my life, I’ve disappointed the great Ditta Hirsch. FML.
19
making the most of the move
Cal
“Mr. Cal,” one of the younger kids says, looking up at me with big, brown eyes, “I don’t know how to make the sound you just told us to make.”
“It’s okay, Logan, it’s a hard one. We can work on it again next week.”
Logan nods once and tries again before sighing heavily and putting the guitar on his lap. I give the kids a handout of things to work on during the week, and then we all exchange our tradition of high fives before they’re off to their next activity.
I work on cleaning up the space, hoping to see Billie appear in the doorway as she usually does at the end of my sessions. Except for today. It’s fair to assume she’s ghosting me since I haven’t heard from her since her dad’s party last weekend.
I’m not sure how to deal with the situation or what to do to make things better. I’ve started several texts, but honestly, the whole situation gives me anxiety. I feel like no matter what I say, it’ll be wrong. I don’t want to upset her more than I already have.
Still, I linger longer than normal, hopeful she might come down to see me. Finally, I pack up my guitar and shut off the light as my phone buzzes with a text message. My stomach flips, hoping it might be from Billie, but instead, I see Emily’s name, and hope turns to instant dread.
Emily: When were you going to tell me you were cheating on me?
Cal: What are you talking about?
Em responds instantly with a screenshot, a grainy photo from a Montreal-based tabloid. The headline reads: MAKING THE MOST OF THE MOVE.
I peer at the photo, trying to drag the screen to increase the size. When I realize what I’m looking at, I lean back against the wall, breathless and sick. It’s hard to make out, for sure, but I know that it’s a photo of Billie and me on the beach. I’m behind her, hands on her hips. Fucking her.
My phone rings, and I answer it quickly, looking around to make sure no one is within earshot. Emily’s already yelling into my ear the instant I accept her call.
“There is no excuse you can give me that will make me believe that you weren’t screwing some bimbo on that beach in that picture.”
“I’m not making an excuse.”
“So, you admit you were screwing some bimbo on the beach?”
“We agreed to a break. At your request, Em.”
“Taking a break doesn’t mean you can just go out and have sex with whoever, wherever, Cal.”
I pinch my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “I think it does mean that, actually. We’re not together, remember?”
“We also didn’t discuss seeing other people.”
“So that guy Nick, from your office that you were messaging when you were here to visit? I’m pretty sure you’re seeing him even if you won’t admit it. Can you truthfully tell me you haven’t fucked him?”
To my surprise, Emily is quiet for a long moment. I hear her take a deep breath before she says, “I think I’m in love with him.”
A bitter laugh escapes the back of my throat. It’s not like I didn’t know, down deep in my heart, that this was happening. That we were ending. That you’re in love with someone else yet rang me in anger. It’s completely illogical.
“What’s so damn funny?” she asks sharply.
“Nothing’s funny. It’s pathetic that you would come raging at me like this when you’ve been seeing someone else since, when, like the minute after I left?”
“I didn’t realize what was happening, what I was feeling.”
“Oh, you didn’t realize what you were feeling. Okay, Em. So, when you said you wanted to make this work? What was that?”
“Cal, you said the same, but here we are. Who is she?”
“None of your business. She’s a friend.”
“Well, I don’t do that with my friends.” The sound of her voice is giving me a headache. Why have I never noticed how annoying her voice is before this?
“Don’t you.” It’s not a question.
An awkward, heated silence stretches between us for several moments, and then she starts talking.
“It was exciting, at first…being with you. You’re one of the hottest players in hockey. You make a ton of money so being with you means financial stability. It felt like a dream come true but then…”
“Then what?” I’m gritting my teeth so hard it’s almost painful.
“Well, you’re you.”
The words hang between us. I am me. Whatever that means.
“But you were willing to stay with me because of who I am in hockey? Because of my money? Neither of those things have changed, so why walk away from it?”
“I could ask you the same thing. You talk about wanting to be with me, but you don’t know me. You don’t care about the things I care about. You’re not interested in the things I’m interested in. You just like the stability of your routine. You want things to stay the same.”
She’s not wrong. I can’t argue, so I ask, “But why didn’t you even try?”
Emily huffs at me through the phone. “Why didn’t you? It’s your photo in the newspaper. God, this is so embarrassing.”
“Why are you embarrassed?”
“Because, Calum, you’re my boyfriend. You’re in another city, with another woman.”
“Wait, you just told me you were in love with someone else. Weeks ago, you told me we were on pause. But it’s you who’s embarrassed?”
“People here don’t know we were on pause.”
“Oh, well, that’s convenient. You get to look like a victim when it was, in fact, you, who actually cheated with Nick.”