SWNOVELS Beautiful Sinner: Chapter 25
I SLEEP AWAY the next twelve hours and barely leave the bed for most of the next day. Callum almost never leaves, except to bring me tea, soup, and fresh tissue boxes when I go through two with my head full of congestion.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” I whine, trying to only blow my nose when I know he’s out of earshot. “Please leave.”
“Not a chance.” He refills my water and takes my temperature, again. I overheard him and Bridget arguing this morning when he demanded they take me to the hospital, to which she insisted it was just a cold. I was not dying. He was disgruntled, to say the least.
When I wake up from my afternoon nap, he’s sitting in the chair again with his laptop on the table next to him and the bible in his lap. “You’re not being very discreet, Callum. Bridget will start to suspect…” My voice is scratchy, but my throat aches a little less now. I’d like to keep the sultry way it sounds though.
“I don’t care,” he answers without looking up.
“What are you working on?”
“Tomorrow’s homily.” Bent over his laptop with the table-side lamp giving him a warm glow, I admire the fact that Callum has all the best qualities of a man approaching middle age. There are faint lines peeking out from the corners of his eyes, and his hands don’t have the flawless look of a young man’s. His hair is still thick though, even though the light brings out the gray strands along his hairline.
His body doesn’t show his age, that much is true. And neither does his libido. On his good days, he can go three rounds, and I’ve known twenty-year-olds who couldn’t pull that off. Maybe it’s the twelve years of celibacy that retained his sex drive.
My head isn’t throbbing so much anymore and the chills have subsided, so I sit myself up against the pillow and pull my legs out from under the covers. Just thinking about pre-priesthood Callum has me feeling antsy with curiosity.
“What were you like when you were my age?”
His eyes cast up toward me, but his brow line tenses at my words. We never really talk about the age thing. I guess it’s eclipsed by the priest thing.
“Your age?”
A smile creeps across my face. “That was twenty years ago, Callum.”
He rolls his eyes as he closes his Bible and sets it next to his laptop. “I’m aware how long ago it was.”
I tug my bottom lip between my teeth. “So, tell me. What were you like?”
After a heavy sigh and a long moment of contemplation, he relents. “I was lost. Reckless. Like I was always in search of something but never satisfied.”
“Were you religious?”
“No. Not really. My family only went to church when we really had to. Bridget and I sort of abandoned that when we moved out. But when I turned twenty-eight, I knew I needed to do something with my life. So I started going to church, hoping God could answer my questions. Give me the guidance I needed. The first time I prayed, as an adult man, I became addicted. When I told my family I was going to seminary school, they were appalled. Thought I was throwing my life away.”
I keep my comments to myself as I watch him across the warmly lit room. How would I feel if someone told me that? I’d be disappointed too. It feels so final.
“Then Teddy went and got himself killed, and I think they wanted me to drop out. It only fueled the fire. I was determined to do both: run the house and the church, so I spent the next fifteen years of my life working so much that I didn’t have time to focus on what I was missing.”
Suddenly it’s like I can see Callum so much more clearly. The broody, stoic man who barely takes time to smile, gave his life away. He doesn’t seem to regret it, but hearing that I have to wonder. Is it really his pride that keeps him tied to his job? The inability to accept defeat or that he made a mistake.
I want to tell him that he may have needed guidance then, but he doesn’t now.
“How are you feeling?” he asks when the room grows heavy with silence.
“A little better. I need a shower. I feel disgusting.”
He quickly stands and moves toward me on the bed. In absolute horror, I back away as he reaches a hand out for me to take. “Stay away, Callum. I’m too gross!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. I probably reek, and my whole face is all swollen and congested. This dim light is about all I can handle you seeing me in. Bright bathroom light is out of the question.”
He completely ignores everything I say as he flips back the covers and scoops me into his arms. I don’t bother fighting with him because it’s not worth the ruckus we would cause, and I’m sure Bridget is suspicious enough. But still, I tighten myself into a ball as he carries, hoping that I can somehow mask any odors I’ve accrued from being in a bed for thirty-six hours straight with a burning fever.
“You’re impossible,” I mumble.
As we get into the bathroom, he sets me on the counter and shuts both of us in. I desperately hope he’s not going to try anything because I don’t know if I could turn him down. When I turn around and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I’m mortified. Any makeup I did have on is now smeared down my cheeks. My nose is red and puffy, and my eyes have heavy, dark circles. I look like hot garbage.
I can hardly stand the idea of any man seeing me like this, let alone the one I currently like the most. I’ve been known to apply a full face of makeup at two in the morning after a promising text message with an invitation to come over and “chill.” The only people who see me like this are Sunny and my mom. But the way Callum barely seems fazed has me feeling suddenly very warm and fuzzy, and not in a fever sort of way.
He watches me undress with too much mischief in his eye, but at least he has the decency to let me wash myself up—and shave the important stuff—before he climbs in to join me.
“So what about you?” he asks as he turns his back to the shower stream.
“What was I like twenty years ago?” I reply with a smile. “You sure you want to know?”
Instead of laughing at me, he pinches my side. I let out a raspy squeal, so he lets up.
“You didn’t let me finish. Where do you see yourself when you’re my age?”
The laughter in me dies as I try to formulate an easy answer to that question. Do I go with honesty or something fake? I figure if I can be honest with anyone, it’s with him, so I swallow down the pain rising in my throat—not from my cold, and I stare at his chest to avoid his eyes.
“I want kids.”
The only sound is the shower stream for a moment before he runs a hand from the back of my head to my lower back. “How many kids do you want?”
His voice sounds strained, like it hurts to even ask that.
“A lot,” I answer, looking up at him. “Or just one. I don’t care.”
He gives me that signature Callum smile that only seems to really register in his eyes.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, pulling away to squeeze shampoo into my hands. “You didn’t expect me to say that. I don’t exactly give off the mom vibes. ”
He doesn’t respond as I reach up to lather his hair with soap, dying to just run it through my fingers. His hands land on my hips, but I keep my face away from his. Even in the shower, I’m not about to let him kiss me.
“It didn’t surprise me at all. I think you’ll be a great mom.”
As he leans his head back to rinse out the shampoo, I swallow down the lump in my throat. I should tell him, right now. I should come clean and tell him everything. He’d understand. He’d listen and be loving to me about it.
Or it could ruin this perfect moment. And every perfect moment to come.
A moment later, he wraps his hands around my legs and hoists me up. My back is against the wall as I bury my face in his neck.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
We don’t say another word about it, letting all of those regrets and what-ifs swim down the drain, along with one of my precious opportunities to come clean. As he enters me, my stress melts away. Our good days feel numbered, especially when he brings up the future. So I need to enjoy the ones we have before they’re gone.