~~~~~ Emery’s Pov ~~~~~
“Mom,” I said again, my face heating despite everything else happening, but she just waved a hand at me, completely unbothered, gesturing toward Calloway with the same patient insistence she always used whenever she had already made up her mind about something.
I glanced back toward the entrance, and Calloway was still hovering there, clearly torn between giving us space and wanting to check if I was actually okay.
Her weight shifted from one foot to the other in a way I’d never seen before.
Not on the ice.
Not in Coach Marsh’s office.
Not even standing in Richard’s careful, assessing presence at that restaurant weeks ago.
This, apparently, was what actually made her nervous.
“Calloway,” I called, waving her over.
“Come here.
My mom wants to meet you.”
She crossed the diner slowly, her hands tucked into her jacket pockets, and I watched her expression change as she got closer.
The careful composure she wore like armor everywhere else softened into something younger, almost shy, entirely unlike the girl who had told a hockey team full of strangers to prove themselves worthy of her time back in September.
“Hi,” she said, stopping a respectful distance from the booth.
“I’m Calloway.
It’s nice to meet you, Mrs.
Hale.”
“Please, call me Denise.” My mother extended a hand, still a little pale but steadier now, the orange juice finally doing its work.
“Thank you for driving her.
Emery told me the bus doesn’t run this late, and I’d have felt terrible if she’d had to wait for one at this hour.”
“It wasn’t a problem at all.” Calloway shook her hand, careful and polite in a way that felt completely different from the careful, calculated politeness she had shown Richard.
This one wasn’t a performance.
It was simply genuine.
“I’m glad I could help.”
My mother studied her for a long moment with the same unhurried, thoughtful look she gave everyone.
It was the kind of look that had somehow never made me feel small the way Richard’s had outside that restaurant weeks ago.
“Sit,” my mother said at last, gesturing toward the empty side of the booth.
“You’re hovering.
It’s making me nervous just watching you.”
Calloway slid into the booth across from us, sitting near the edge of the seat like she wasn’t entirely sure she had permission to relax yet.
“Emery talks about you,” my mother said, taking another slow sip of her orange juice, more color gradually returning to her face.
“Not a lot—she’s always been private—but enough that I’ve been curious for a few weeks now.”
“All good things, I hope,” Calloway asked, glancing at me with the faintest hint of her usual teasing smile finally returning.
“Mostly.”
The corner of my mother’s mouth twitched.
“She mentioned you’re a good student when properly motivated.
Chemistry, specifically.”
“Guilty.”
“And that you drive fast when it matters.” My mother’s eyes drifted toward the window, toward the car parked slightly crooked in the lot outside.
“I appreciate that.
Especially tonight.”
“I may have cut a corner or two getting here,” Calloway admitted, sounding sheepish in a way I’d genuinely never heard before—not once, not even during the towel incident a few hours earlier.
I sat quietly between them, watching everything unfold with a strange warmth settling in my chest.
The rink.
The tears.
The confession on Calloway’s couch.
And now this.
My mother and my girlfriend sitting across from each other in a diner booth like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like today hadn’t tried its hardest to fall apart before somehow bringing us here instead.
“How are you feeling, Mrs.—Denise,” Calloway corrected herself quickly, genuine concern replacing the nervous politeness in her voice.
Embarrassed, mostly, that Donna had to call my daughter instead of letting me push through the rest of my shift.”
My mother gave me a look that was half apologetic, half stubborn.
The exact same look I saw in my own reflection more often than I cared to admit.
“I’ll be more careful.
I promise.”
“You should eat something before you go home,” Calloway said gently.
“Not just juice.
Something with actual protein if the kitchen’s still open.”
My mother raised an amused eyebrow.
“Emery said almost the exact same thing twenty minutes ago.”
“She’s rubbing off on me.”
Calloway looked at me with something warm in her eyes that made my chest tighten.
“Good,” my mother said simply.
There was something in the way she said it.
Brief, certain and entirely without drama.
It told me more about what she thought of Calloway than any long speech ever could.
Donna appeared a moment later carrying a plate of eggs and toast, setting it down in front of my mother with the easy familiarity of someone who had worked beside her for years.
“On the house,” she said, patting my mother’s shoulder.
“Eat up, Denise.
Your girls are worried about you.”
*Your girls.*
Something about those two simple words settled warmly inside my chest.
Calloway folded so naturally into the fabric of my life.
Not a secret.
Not a performance.
Not someone pretending for Richard’s sake.
Just…
here.
Sitting across from my mother in an ordinary diner booth on an ordinary, terrifying night.
My mother ate slowly while we talked, more color steadily returning to her face, and the conversation drifted into easier topics.
Calloway’s hockey season.
The upcoming Wrenfield game.
My mother’s questions were curious but never intrusive.
Nothing like Richard’s careful, transactional questions over that expensive dinner weeks ago.
“You’ll do well,” my mother said eventually, setting down her fork.
“I don’t know much about hockey, but I know pressure when I see it.
“And you don’t strike me as someone who backs down from it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I usually am.”
She smiled faintly.
“Especially about people.”
Her eyes found mine.
“I raised a daughter who doesn’t let people in easily.”
“If she let you in…”
She looked back at Calloway.
“You must have done something right.”
Calloway looked at me then, something quiet and grateful passing across her face.
Under the table, her fingers found mine again, lacing themselves with mine the same slow, familiar way they had back on her couch.
“I’m trying to,” she said softly.
“Every day.”
My mother finished the last bite of her toast, and by the time we finally left the diner, the color had fully returned to her face.
Calloway drove us home.
My mother sat in the front seat, directing her through turns she probably didn’t need help with.
I sat quietly in the back, watching the two of them settle into an easy rhythm.
My mother asking about hockey recruitment.
Calloway asking about the diner.
The two of them trading small, ordinary stories as though they’d known each other much longer than a single frightening evening.
And somehow…
That alone made my chest ache with a happiness I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.
By the time Calloway pulled up outside our apartment building, the night had gone completely still.
The whole terrifying, wonderful day had finally come to an end.
“Thank you,” my mother said, leaning over to squeeze Calloway’s hand once before climbing out of the car.
“For tonight.”
“And for whatever it is you’re doing that’s making my daughter smile like that again.”
She headed toward the building without waiting for an answer, clearly giving us a moment alone on purpose.
I stayed beside the open car door, looking at Calloway beneath the soft glow of the streetlight.
The quiet street stretched around us, broken only by the distant hum of traffic somewhere a few blocks away.
“Today was a lot,” I said quietly.
“Today was a lot,” she agreed.
“But I wouldn’t trade any of it.
Even the worst parts.”
“Especially not the part where I finally got to meet your mom.”
I leaned across the center console.
She met me halfway.
Our lips brushed softly, warm against the cool night air drifting through the open door.
The kiss lingered for just a moment, slow and familiar, carrying the faint taste of peppermint from the gum she had been chewing earlier.
Her fingers curled lightly around my wrist, gentle enough that I barely felt the touch, but enough to make my heart skip anyway.
When we finally pulled apart, our foreheads almost touched, neither of us quite ready to move away first.
“Text me when you get home safely,” I whispered.
“Always,” she promised with a smile.
I watched her pull away from the curb before finally turning toward my building.
My mother was already waiting patiently by the entrance.
The moment I reached her, she smiled.
“You really like her.”
I opened my mouth to deny it.
But nothing came out.
Mom smiled knowingly.
“I thought so.”
I shook my head and reached into my pocket for my keys.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out and glanced down at the screen.
Unknown Number.
A small frown crossed my face.
I opened the message.
Stay away from Calloway Marchetti.
My smile disappeared as I stared at the words.
Before I could even process them, another message came through.
This is your only warning.
I froze.
Who…
was this?