Page 49 of Shades of Grey & Gold

But I don’t think he is kidding.

I glance around the cabin of the plane feeling suddenly stuck and claustrophobic. I focus my eyes back on Callan and remind myself to breathe.

It’s Callan. I’m safe.

“I lost myself so fast, Max, and when I finally came up for air, I knew I couldn’t keep going without some kind of system of checks and balances. Something to make sure I never went too far. Make sure I never got too… grey. I felt like I needed light or something, I needed to go be… just—fuck, just be good for a minute. I had to un-fuck myself. And the last time I had that light—”

My whole body jumps as the flight attendant’s figure startles me, suddenly in front of the table setting a small tray of pastries next to a glass of ice water in front of me on the table between us. I exhale the adrenaline, closing my eyes briefly and pressing my hands harder into my lap. Cal throws a look of annoyance in her general direction before fixing his eyes back on his glass. She walks away, staring only at the floor.

He takes some deep breaths. I can tell he’s starting to struggle a little, which is so un-Callan—or at least the Callan I know. He had always thought through every word before he said it; made sure no intention or tone would be misunderstood. And his words always came so easily.

“So, we decided Nico would take over. At least for a while, he would act in my stead. I had to get out of there. I had to go back.” He is staring at the swirling amber liquid but lifts a finger off the glass to point at me. “Which is the question of yours I was trying to answer earlier.”

I raise my eyebrows expectantly, slowly reaching out to take my glass of water and bring it to my lips. The ice-cold liquid runs down my throat slowly, wetting the desert that had formed on my tongue while Callan recounted where he had been all these years.

“I went back to Boston. To Ellison & Parker. I told you that but I never explained it,” his voice lowers and his eyes raise slowly, blazing a path to mine, and the golden-green shines. “I went back for you. I was scared I’d be too late, and you would be married to that asshole.”

My water glass flies out of my hand as the plane hits turbulence at the same time my heart falls into my butt.

I’m attempting to corral ice cubes between my hands on the table before I can think it through. I see it before I feel it. The red streaks floating, fading into the clear water from under my hand.

Glass.

And then my hand is searing when I hold it up in front of my face, letting the ice and water slide toward me straight into my lap as the plane sways again.

“Fuck, fuck.” I’m whispering and blood is rippling down the back side of my arm and dripping off my elbow onto the white carpet of the plane.

“I’m sorry!” I squeak the words out as I turn the seat to face the aisle and hold my elbow over my jeans instead, small red circles forming above my knees.

Callan is already up and running towards the back of the plane. I watch as he rips open the door, and the surprised face of the attendant is staring back at him, then me.

He rolls his eyes, turns away from her and rifles through an overhead cabinet. After pulling out a blue bag, he’s down on one knee in front of me, unzipping what I see is a first aid kit. He lays a small white towel over his knee.

“Sir, the captain has said turbulence will continue, you really should take your sea—”

The flight attendant doesn’t even finish her sentence before he speaks.

“Leave. Close the door.” His voice is cold and slides through the air like the ice that still vibrates across the table—frigid and sure—and Denise makes an about-face before the words finish leaving his lips.

“I’m—I am so sorry, the carpet, I’m—” My voice is shaking as my eyes bounce from the crimson drips falling from my elbow to Callan’s hands steadily pulling out gauze, alcohol wipes, and zipping up the bag.

He tosses the bag with force down the aisle towards the door, shaking his head, and lifts the towel to my elbow, his lips in a tight line. He gently pulls my right hand down to rest atop his knee. My hand is shaking, worse than my voice, as another jump from the plane sends more ice skidding off the table towards Callan. I don’t even feel the cut on my hand.

In the back of my mind, I register a burning pain, but the information dump and the cold water have me in a state of shock. He doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t react, completely unbothered by the turbulence, by the blood, as he lifts the towel to examine the cut.

“Don’t ever apologize to me. For anything.” His eyes trail up my arm, while the towel follows the same path until it’s resting on the side of my hand.

“Don’t apologize ever? What if I like…” My brain starts trying to run distraction protocol.

“No. Don’t apologize to me. Promise me you’ll never apologize to me. For anything.”

He’s so serious, his eyes trying to meet mine, but I bounce away. There goes my brain again, looking for levity.

“I mean, I promise. But what if I were to… tell Denise about that time we both got really drunk and you had to carry me across campus barefoot in the snow while I wore your shoes and you did the YMCA dance in the middle of the apartment parking lot because I felt so bad and you wanted to make me laugh?”

One side of his mouth tilts up in amusement, but his eyes are on the alcohol swab burning a line across the back edge of my hand.

“I wasn’t drunk.” The words are almost imperceptible.