loud and clear after that. And a few weeks later, he asked me to dinner at this lovely little bistro in downtown Portland. And then he proposed.”
“Wow,” I say, breathless. My seemingly perfect parents had a borderline dysfunctional lead-up to their marriage.
She reaches across the table, patting me softly on the cheek. “See? Your dad and I weren’t perfect at all. The way we got engaged was a mess. But we both admitted our mistakes and worked hard to do better. And we did. If we messed up, we apologized. We forgave each other too many times to count. And we never gave up on each other.”
She stands up from the chair and walks over to me.
“And you shouldn’t give up on Callum. You two have been through a lot. It takes time, but you can fix it.”
My head spins with this eye-opening revelation. Contrary to my lifelong belief, my parents weren’t always a shining example of a lovey-dovey, zero-conflict relationship.
Placing her hand on my shoulder, she gives a gentle squeeze. “What I told you wasn’t meant to shock you. It was meant to give you hope.”
Her words are a flicker of light in a pitch-black room. The mess I’ve made is salvageable. Maybe. Hopefully.
She leans down to hug me. “Just think about reaching out to him, okay?”
“I will.”
* * *
• • •
I stare at my phone screen, thumb hovering over Callum’s name in my contacts. Seconds pass. Still I do nothing.
The seemingly tiny task of moving my finger feels as impossible as dog-paddling across the Pacific or scaling Everest. I stand up from my bed for the millionth time. I’ve repeated this song and dance all morning. I’ve tried to call Callum while standing at the kitchen counter, in the hallway, outside on the balcony of the condo, but it’s always the same. I freeze, terrified at the thought of what he might say. Or won’t say.
It’s one day after the pep talk from Mom, and I thought I was ready to attempt to contact him. So, so wrong.
Every time I look at his name in my phone, my stomach punches itself. Even so, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, press his name, and hold the phone to my ear.
And then I hang up and toss the phone on my bed.
Wringing my hands and pacing the room doesn’t seem to help my racing heart. Planting my feet on the ground, I face the shiny black rectangle in the middle of my bed. It’s one phone call. One. I can do this.
“I can do this,” I mutter softly to myself as I pick my phone back up and dial again.
This time I grip the wrist of my phone-holding hand with my other hand. Insurance. A backup plan. It’s the only way I can make sure I don’t hang up and toss the phone out my bedroom window this time.
When the ringing turns to voice mail, relief sets in. I breathe. I can leave a message.
There’s a beep. I open my mouth, then promptly freeze. “Hi, um . . . this is . . . um, well.” I clear my throat. “This is, um, Nikki. Hi . . . I . . . well, I . . .”
I’m covering my face with my free hand, leaning my neck back, and trying my hardest to stifle a groan through gritted teeth. This is hands down the most disastrous voice mail message ever recorded.
It’s a few more “um”s and “uh”s until I give up and end the call.
My brain and mouth have failed me. But of course they would. Because how in the world could I sum up my feelings about our relationship in a single voice mail message?
It’s not even close to possible.
Again I flop on the bed, my head spinning. The ringtone of my phone blares. It’s Callum. I answer the phone, but I’m too scared to say anything.
“Um, Nikki?” Callum says after a second.
“Um, y-yeah?”
Callum is on the phone. With me. We’re finally speaking. And I have no idea what to say.
We share a strained silence as I work up the nerve to say something, anything to get a conversation rolling between us.
“How’s Lemon?” It’s the only neutral topic I can think of.
He clears his throat. “That’s actually why I’m calling. Can you come over? There’s something you need to see.”
* * *
• • •
I’m on autopilot the whole drive to Callum’s, speeding past the slow-moving traffic. I didn’t think to ask him what was wrong with