FYI: I Outpitched You Ch 22

FYI: I Outpitched You Ch 22
Miles checked the apartment number again, amused by how nervous he felt. This wasn’t some high-stakes pitch. It was Callie. From freshman year. The girl who made him take his coffee with cinnamon just because she swore it woke up creativity.

She opened the door with a grin that faltered just a little. “Wow. Okay. It’s really you.”

“It’s really me,” he said, stepping forward. “Also...your building smells like cookies. Is that just you?”

“Guilty,” she said. “Sugar cookies. Aromatherapy version.”

He smiled, easing in. “You haven’t changed.”

Callie tilted her head. “That’s sweet. Wrong. But sweet.”

Inside, it felt like her vibe—plants thriving under little glass domes, soft jazz humming from a speaker, a knitted throw blanket folded with suspicious precision.

“You sure this isn’t a showroom?” he teased.

“I do my best. And you’re lucky you didn’t come during my ‘all pink everything’ phase.”

He settled into the couch as she poured two glasses of rosé. “You still drink pink wine,” he said.

“Don’t judge,” she replied. “It tastes like friendship.”

He laughed—and she did too. That awkward tension softened into something familiar.

“I didn’t know you were in the city,” she said finally.

“Neither did I know you were. VitaRush has excellent reunion powers, apparently.”

They clinked glasses.

“To accidental fate,” Callie said.

“To rediscovering cinnamon coffee,” Miles replied.

“So,” Callie said, leaning back on the couch, “do you still make that weird breakfast sandwich? The one with peanut butter, eggs, and sriracha?”

Miles laughed. “Okay, first off, it slaps. And second—it’s gotten more sophisticated. There’s now a toasted pretzel bun involved.”

She raised her glass like a toast. “Growth.”

They were quiet for a second, sipping.

“It’s wild,” Miles said. “How easy this feels.”

Callie nodded. “I didn’t expect it. I thought tonight would be...tense.”

He glanced at her. “Why? You weren’t mad at me back then.”

“No. Just kind of...hurt.”

“Because of Tabitha?”

Callie made a face. “Freshman year was our golden age. Then sophomore year hit like a plot twist no one asked for.”

Miles tilted his head. “You two never got along.”

“She wore stilettos to organic chemistry. That alone felt hostile.”

They both burst out laughing.

Then Callie tapped her glass. “I always wondered if you knew how that shift messed with me.”

“I did,” Miles said quietly. “But I didn’t know what to do about it.”

Their eyes met—not heavy, not bitter, just full of the mutual almost they’d never quite named.

“I still think about those 2AM walks,” she admitted. “And your weird pep talks before presentations.”

He smiled. “You used to doodle nerves out on my notebook covers.”

“And you kept them,” she said.

“I did.”

They sat in that gentle kind of silence—the one that’s not awkward, just full of air and old warmth.

Callie finally said, “Anyway. Thanks for coming over. Even if it’s because of VitaRush.”

Miles nudged her foot with his. “Maybe VitaRush is just the excuse. I think this needed to happen.”

“I’m pretty sure the last time we sat on a couch together, it was that scratchy green one in North Hall,” Callie said, swirling her rosé.

Miles groaned. “Ugh, yes. It felt like sitting on woven sadness.”

“And it smelled like old pizza and ambition.”

They both laughed—real, breathy, unguarded.

“You know what I remember most?” Callie leaned her head back. “That one rainy night we walked to the library in your ridiculous yellow raincoat.”

“I was basically a sentient banana,” he said.

“But confident about it,” she added.

He watched her smile, full and relaxed, and for a moment he wasn’t thinking about VitaRush or submissions or strategy. Just about how nice it was to hear her laugh again.

“I was nervous coming here,” he admitted. “Didn’t know if you’d slam the door in my face.”

Callie shook her head, eyes soft. “I never slammed doors. I just...closed a few quietly.”

They clinked glasses again, this time just because.

“I still have your playlist,” she said suddenly. “The one you made during finals week. It’s terrible. Like...dramatically angsty.”

Miles looked genuinely shocked. “Wait. That was a masterpiece. It had layers.”

“It had Evanescence and Linkin Park. On the same tracklist.”

“Exactly. Emotional depth.”

She rolled her eyes, but her grin stayed.

After a pause, she said, “This feels really good, Miles. Familiar.”

He nodded. “Like we never missed a beat.”

“But we did,” she said, gently. “A whole decade.”

“Then maybe,” he said, setting down his glass, “this is our remix.”

“You remember that day during midterms when we skipped Econ to sit on the art quad lawn?” Callie asked, stirring the ice in her glass with a lazy swirl.

Miles smiled. “Vividly. You were sketching people’s shoes like it was a competitive sport.”

“I was stress-spiraling in charcoal.”

“You also made me tell you five things I liked about myself. On the spot.”

She grinned. “Self-esteem boot camp. Miles, you were terrible at compliments.”

“I told you I liked my kneecaps. Who even says that?”

Callie burst out laughing. “No one. Literally no one. But it was honest.”

They sat in that little shared chuckle for a beat longer than necessary—remembering how young and open they’d been, how their conversations had always felt like home.

“You know what’s wild?” Miles said. “I think that day—right there on the lawn—I started to really fall for you.”

Callie blinked. “Why didn’t you ever say that?”

He shrugged, a little sheepishly. “I didn’t know it was allowed.”

“So you’ve been here… this whole time?” Miles asked, setting his empty glass on the coffee table like it had become part of the furniture already.

Callie nodded. “Since right after graduation. Breacon & Wren offered me a junior design lead position before I even had a gown on. I packed up my dorm and never looked back.”

“I went home after college,” he said. “Spent about a year untangling from the whole Tabitha situation.”

Callie raised an eyebrow. “Was it dramatic?”

“Surprisingly not. We faded out like a song no one really liked in the first place.”

She smiled. “I’m glad. You deserved better.”

He paused. “You were always better.”

Callie pretended not to hear that—but her smile lingered.

“Catalyst picked me up six months later,” Miles continued. “I moved here thinking it’d be temporary. You know—build my resume, see a few concerts, probably mess up a plant or two.”

“And now you’re accidentally living two neighborhoods away from your college what-if.”

They both laughed, but this time there was that flicker underneath—the shared thought neither wanted to say out loud just yet: How did we not know? How different would things be if we had?

Callie stretched her legs out, toe nudging his knee. “Maybe the city was waiting for the right moment.”

Miles leaned back and grinned. “And maybe the moment came with sugar cookie candles and rosé.”

“I still think about that night,” Miles said, voice low

Callie glanced over. “Which one?”

“The last night of freshman year. You wore that oversized denim jacket with Sharpie scribbles on the cuffs.”

“You kissed me,” she said. Not accusing. Just remembering.

He nodded. “And then I left. Went back home. Thought I’d talk to you every day.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t. At first, it was Tabitha... her whole ‘let’s pick up where we left off’ thing. But it wasn’t the same.”

Callie’s gaze held him steady, though her fingers tapped her glass softly.

“I broke up with her mid-July,” Miles continued. “I was going to call you. I was ready to make us real.”

Callie raised an eyebrow. “But then she showed up. The first day of sophomore year."

He winced. “Yeah.”

“That day on the quad,” she said. “She kissed you. Clung to you like she belonged. And I—”

“You walked away,” he finished quietly.

“I felt stupid,” Callie said. “I thought maybe... maybe that kiss meant something.”

“It did,” Miles said. “I swear, it did.”

She was quiet for a moment, then gave a small shrug. “Timing. It’s always been our least compatible trait.”

He smiled at that—sad, but fond.

“You think we could’ve worked?” she asked.

Miles looked at her for a long beat. “I don’t know. But I think about it more than I’d admit.”

Callie nodded. “Me too.”

And then she kicked her foot gently against his. “But look at us now. Wine. Vanilla candles. Mutual emotional maturity.”

“A real glow-up,” Miles said, grinning. “Next step: cinnamon coffee and design collaboration.”

Callie clinked her glass against his. “The remix era begins.”

Callie stood and wandered to the bookshelf, finger trailing across the spines until she paused, pulled out a slim sketchpad, and handed it to him.

Miles flipped it open.

“Shoes,” he murmured. Page after page. People on benches. Students rushing to class. Staff in sensible sneakers. Platform boots, ballet flats, every shape and story walking across that campus.

“You drew all these?”

“Freshman year,” she said. “It was my way of anchoring myself. Before I knew how to say what I was feeling.”

Miles stopped at one familiar page.

“I remember these,” he said. “My high-top Chucks with the fraying laces.”

“You used to bounce your foot when you were thinking,” Callie replied. “I could always tell when an idea was hitting you. Like your brain was a drumline.”

He laughed, then went quiet. “I forgot that.”

“I didn’t,” Callie said. Her voice was light, but something stirred underneath.

He closed the sketchbook slowly, looked up. “What if I hadn’t let go?”

Callie looked at him, her expression soft but sure. “Then maybe we’d have figured it out in year two. Or maybe we’d have crashed and burned. But I still would've wanted to know what it felt like.

They held each other’s gaze—warm, unhurried.

Then she added with a smirk, “Also, you were insufferably cocky about your storytelling skills back then. Probably would’ve driven me nuts.”

Miles grinned. “Still cocky. Now with better pacing.”

She tossed a pillow at him. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

\---

Outside, the wind nudged the windows gently. Inside, they sat side by side—closer than earlier, more comfortable than expected.

Time had stretched, spun, rearranged. But somehow, in this quiet moment, it folded itself neatly and settled between them like an old friend.

Not quite love.

Not yet.

But something ready to open.

\--

Miles didn’t respond right away. He sat there, fingertips grazing the edges of the sketchpad, like it could somehow anchor him in this weird, unraveling moment.

Finally, he said, “Callie...what really happened between you and Tabitha? Back in college.”

Callie looked at him, brows gently pulled in. “It was complicated. Sophomore year, she started showing up everywhere. Not just around you—but classes, clubs, even my studio space.”

Miles nodded slowly, remembering. “She was always...strategic.”

“She wasn’t just around. She was watching. Competing. I don’t think she liked the idea that I mattered to you.”

That landed harder than either of them expected.

Miles leaned forward, elbows on knees. “When I left my hometown, I figured I’d left her too. We never really kept in touch. Even on visits—nothing. Her working for VitaRush? It’s not a coincidence. I know that now.”

Callie said nothing, letting the silence speak for itself.

“I’m not mad about the campaign,” Miles continued, voice low but steady. “I mean—I am. But not because of the submission. Because you didn’t trust me. You didn’t come to me.”

Her eyes flicked to his, apologetic but unresolved.

“I get why you did it,” he said. “Peyton was safe. You needed backup. But still...we’re here now, catching up, peeling back old layers. And you kept that one hidden.”

Callie exhaled. “I didn’t know how. I thought maybe it would just…fix itself.”

Miles gave a soft laugh—but it wasn’t amused. “Yeah. But things don’t fix themselves when Tabitha’s involved.”

He leaned back again, a bitter pang tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The worst part is, I thought we were past this. That everything old had finally settled. But somehow—she’s still finding ways to insert herself into things that matter to me.”

Callie reached out, touched his arm lightly. “She doesn’t get to define this.”

Miles looked at her—really looked—and gave a small, tired smile. “No. But she sure does know how to make things messy.”