Chapter 170: Grown men cry

CALUM

A ghost of a smile flies across my lips as soon as those words leaves Lucas. I must have terrified him if he’s this riled up.

“I’ll try,” I murmur.

They both give my shoulders a squeeze and part for me to exit. I backtrack to my room, grab my wallet and sunglasses. There’s no time for a disguise. I’ll just have to deal with being popular, that’s if anyone will notice me. We are bigger in New York.

Mum calls on my way out of Caleb’s house and my finger automatically hits the decline button. How could she? What was the reason? What excuse or explanation can she give that would make this better?

My phone rings again. I put it on silent mode and slide it into my pocket. Mum has done her best, it’s time for me to do mine.

It takes only seventeen minutes to get a cab that will take me to Cathy’s address. It might have been my accent, but a lot of them have to ask me to repeat myself before shaking their heads in the negative.

In the backseat of the car whose driver didn’t need me to ‘come again’, my doubts build. I retrieve my phone from my pocket.

There are missed calls and messages from my mother. I read through them with a sad smile. She has caused me so much pain in the last year. I’m mentally exhausted at this point, and I want to stop fighting her. But how can I when she does things like this? And she’s just showing me the pictures now? She didn’t talk to me for months!

Mum: I take it you’ve seen the pictures.

Mum: I thought I was doing the right thing.

Mum: I’m sorry

Mum: Take all the time you need away from me and we can talk later?

Me: How could you?

Without waiting for her response, I tuck the phone back into my pocket. My fingers tap on my knees. I don’t know if I’m anxious because of Mum’s texts or from the fact I’ll be seeing Cathy in a few minutes. What if it’s too late for an explanation? It can’t be.

My fingers flex to ease some of the tension. I’m going to see my Superstar and I’m wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt. I pinch the collar of my shirt. Is that a stain?

The driver tries to make conversation but I’m too nervous to reply in more than one word. Soon, he grows tired. The car slows when we arrive at a new street. Houses sit on the same rows. It’s different from Wells. Quieter. I sit up, my body the same weight as a wet bag of cement.

“What number?” the driver asks.

I read out the number in Mum’s text. He hums in reply and we continue to the place. As the car drives on, my anxiety doubles. I bite the insides of my cheek. What will she say? Will she even give me a listening ear?

Couldn’t she read between the lines? What lines? The text was only three lines long. God. I run my palms over my face, and my eyes sting from the sweat that creeps into them. The car stops and my head falls back to the headrest. What do I do if my baby refuses to acknowledge me? How do I get her to listen or hear my side of the story?

I don’t have a backup plan.

“We are here,” the driver murmurs.

I peer out the window facing her house, and my heart thuds. According to Cathy, this would be a single storey building since they don’t count from the first floor, but in the US, it would be a double storey building. I retrieve a stack of notes from my wallet and slap it gently on the driver’s shoulder.

My eyes don’t leave the front door. There’s a small fence surrounding the house but I can jump over it. A car sits in front of the house, another is parked outside the fence. On my request, the driver reverses to avoid attracting suspicions to our position while keeping the house within a visible distance.

Shaking the fear off me, I reach for the knob inside the car. It’s time.

Fate must have been at work. I open the door of the backseat at the same time Cathy’s front door opens. A man steps out first.

The guitar guy.

My breath catches. What if Superstar has moved on? A woman follows behind the guitar guy. It takes only her side view for me to identify her. My superstar. My baby.

Cathy turns her back to me, and when she turns around, she’s hugging a baby to her chest. My breath ceases completely. I shut the door of the backseat without getting out.

She has a kid.

She has a baby.

Sweat rolls down my temples. The speech I didn’t know I was going to say evaporates from my head.

The man says something that makes Cathy laugh. That is—was my job. They start towards the blue car parked outside the fence, and I slide down my seat. He opens the backseat for her to drop the kid. After that, he opens the passenger door for her. She doesn’t get in immediately. They share a moment of silence with their eyes locked.

Whatever that moment is, it earns her a hug from him. A sound roars in my head and I realise it’s the sound of my heart breaking.

I stare at my balled fists, at the cuts I made in my palms. Superstar has moved on.

She has a kid. She has a man. She is happy.

Bitter laughter bubbles from the pit of my belly. I push it down. It’s my fault. Mum’s fault. She sent those messages, not me.

What does it matter now? Cathy is gone.

I try to picture a conversation with her but all scenarios end with her man—boyfriend, lover or whatever that man is, punching me in the face. How could she move on so fast?

So fast? The sinister voice in my head teases. It has been over a year since the accident happened. That’s long enough to get over a boyfriend who asked you to stop emailing him and move on with your life.

Telling myself that doesn’t ease the burden in my chest. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes. I’m a grown man but I think I’m about to cry in the back of a cab.

It would make a great song title. Grown men cry. A line in the song would be: crying in the back of a cab in fucking London.

This city has taken so much from me. I hate this place.

“Are you alright there, mate?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” My head falls back in defeat. I hear the sound of a car, but my eyes close to everything. “Take me back to the house.”

My phone rings. I answer without checking the caller’s identity. Once I know it’s Scott, I say, “Don’t worry, I’m on my way back.”

The boys don’t have to worry about me having a breakdown anymore or getting distracted. Lucas was right all along. She moved on. Maybe it’s time to do the same.

Scott laughs. “Okay, Calum. But I called for something else. Finally found you a PI. Do you want me to send his number?”

My eyes stray to the spot the blue car was parked earlier. I shake my head. If you love someone and you’re stupid as I am to lose them, you have to let them find happiness in someone else, even if it hurts like hell. And losing Cathy hurts. It hurts from the inside, slowly tearing me outside as well.

The car jerks under me as it stirs to life, and Scott reminds me of his question.

“I don’t need it anymore,” I answer.

“You sure, bud?” Scott asks. I massage my forehead. “He came highly recommended.”

“Yeah. Got my answers already.”

The call ends without questions from him. That’s Scott for you. He minds his business until it gets to the point of concern. A hole expands in my chest. I’m not sure what is worse. All those months with a fucked up memory, the months of searching for her or the realisation she no longer needs me. Each of them comes with a different type of pain. I hide it behind a mask of indifference and text the boys to let them know I’m on my way to the house.

That shaman who predicted our future was a scam. She might have seen babies but they didn’t belong to me. They belong to that smug bastard who gets to hold my superstar. Was that what Pete wanted me to see? How happy his daughter was without me? He got his wishes. I’ll leave her alone.

We arrive at our destination. I pay the driver his dues and alight. My steps are disoriented as I rush into the house. Lucas and Sam follow after me but I race into my room, sneak under the comforter and pull it over my head. I’m not ‘being a man’ right now, but where the hell has that gotten me?

My door opens. The bed dips with their combined weight but they leave me be.

“We are here for you, man,” Lucas says.

But I don’t want them, I want Cathy. I force myself to forget those unhelpful thoughts. Mum might have told her all those months ago to stop texting. But today, I can finally agree with my mother. Cathy and I are over.