Page 33 of The Callahan Effect

He read the screen before looking out across the water again.

"I can understand why."

For several more minutes we walked without speaking, our shoulders brushing occasionally whenever the path narrowed. The silence felt as comfortable as it had all morning, neither of us needing words simply because they were available.

Without any warning, Mason's hand found mine and every thought in my head vanished.

I looked down at our joined hands then back at his face, certain my expression reflected every ounce of surprise, uncertainty, and hope colliding inside me.

He didn't let go. Instead, his fingers tightened around mine.

"I probably should've told you this earlier." His voice remained calm despite the uncertainty flickering in his expression. "I'm gay."

The confession settled between us and I felt an unexpected wave of relief wash through me.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I unlocked my phone.

So am I.

He read the words before exhaling a breath that sounded suspiciously like he'd been holding it since taking my hand.

"I was beginning to wonder if I'd completely misread things."

I shook my head, unable to stop smiling.

We found an empty bench overlooking the river and sat together, still close enough that our shoulders touched and our fingers stayed entwined.

For several peaceful moments we watched the water flowing steadily past before Mason turned toward me, his expression thoughtful rather than merely curious.

"Have you always been unable to speak?"

The question wasn't intrusive.

If anything, it carried concern.

I looked back toward the river, memories I'd spent years trying to bury beginning to stir beneath the surface.

The sound of the water slipping past the riverbank filled the silence between us, giving me one last chance to keep the past where it belonged.

Nobody knew the whole story except Dad.

Whenever anyone asked why I couldn't speak, I gave them the simplest answer I could. I'd lost my voice when I was six. Most people accepted that without another question. Those who looked curious usually decided it wasn't their place to pry, and I was grateful they didn't. It meant I never had to relive the worst days of my life.

Mason deserved more than the answer everyone else received.

I reluctantly slipped my hand from his and looked down at my phone. My thumbs hovered above the keyboard for several long seconds before I finally began to answer.

I wasn't born mute. I could talk until I was six.

He read the screen, then looked at me instead of searching for another question. There was no shock, no pity, only patience that made the next part easier.

The next words took longer.

I used to get constant throat infections. By the time I was six, they were happening so often the specialists recommended removing my tonsils. Dad didn't make the decision lightly. He spoke to more than one surgeon because he wanted to be certain there wasn't another option, but every opinion came back the same. They all believed the operation would solve the problem.

Even after all these years, the memories settled heavily across my shoulders.

The surgery itself went well. Everyone expected me to recover normally and go home within a day or two. Instead, I developed a severe infection after the operation.