Last Chance

sept

vii.

Quality wine with an edgy, rock n' roll twist.

That's how the following weeks passed as though he were drifting in a dream and throughout, many things had happened that Caleb Breland did not wish to dwell on. Yet dwell he does.

The first week was spent in a unnerving shroud of red mist. He'd wake in a groggy state, brew a pot of coffee for himself before hopping in the shower and gather his wits about himself. He figured that he'd gotten over his lover's spat with Vincent but the moment his eyes landed on him at the firm, it was like all that pent-up hurt resurfaced.

He spent the remainder of that week cutting corners and taking meetings so as to no longer run into him.

The second week he came to his senses and realised how juvenile he was being-how they both were-what with Vince doing the same damn thing. They were both in their thirties now and still didn't know how to fucking work through their petty squabbles.

Naturally, Caleb decided to throw himself into work to distract himself. Then took up the gym (which was a much better alternative then smoking again) to work through the rage. In doing so, he made a habit out of cladding himself in gray cutoffs and joggers anytime he wasn't at work.

Which wouldn't be a big deal if his entire life, shitty upbringing excluded, he hadn't made a point to not being caught dead in anything other than slacks and wing collared shirts. Now his life consisted more of heading home to draw up more paperwork while crossing his fingers that someone didn't glimpse him running errands with those bloody cutoffs and joggers.

Of course this wish did not pan out just the way he'd desired it to. For his third week would be just the beginning of the biggest hell he'd have to endure.

It started off with a stroll passed quaint shops in Old Town. The lampposts adorned with boughs of fresh flowers, and Caleb with his hands fished in a comfortable pair of joggers. What with the majority of his mates residing in uptown, he had not one qualm about waffling down the other walk of life.

So imagine the flare of panic that ignited once his gaze landed on the terrace of a french café. He spotted her almost instantaneously, donned in a white Bardot dress and sun-warmed hair soft on her shoulders, scarfing down almond granitas with a brioche bun.

If looks could kill.

Seeing her was like seeing her for the first time again and his heart skipped a beat.

Fortunately, she was alone. Seemingly content about this, Caleb deemed it a good moment as any to pull in a sharp breath and meander his way to her.

"Stella."

At the utterance of her name, Stella strained her neck backward to spare a glance behind her. She brushed back a lock of brown hair at the sight of him, the same brown hair she shared with her mother.

"Caleb," she said, with a serene expression, "what are you doing here?"

He didn't know what to do with his hands other than start wringing his fingers out of nerves but he caught himself in the act and instead pushed them into the respective pockets of his trousers.

"I was taking a walk."

Her lips quirked into a sly grin. "You take walks?"

"Yeah. What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing! I just wouldn't expect someone like you to make time for...promenades."

Caleb, mildly affronted, said: "It helps clear the mind. Better than smokes."

"Was that a jab?" She smiled at him and he's certain, in true fashion of the butterfly effect that within this small change-large differences ensued. The world spun slower, for one.

"Absolutely."

Her hair blew back in the wind when she finally invited him to sit. He's hasty in his steps but seated himself gracefully. "So," he started after a lengthy bout of silence. "You never got back to me."

Stella rested her elbows on the table, her chin on her fist. She cocked her head to one side with a lackadaisical smirk. "Was I supposed to?"

"Yes? We agreed -"

" - Did we?"

"Fine. I assumed that we were going to try to be friends and that you'd ring me. It's been three weeks, Stell."

She stilled so imperceptibly that if he were anyone else, Caleb wouldn't have noticed. But he's memorised this woman, her body language and every facial expression. He mulled over the use of her nickname and pondered if it might have been a trigger of some sort, perhaps too affectionate. "Haven't you heard? Assuming makes an arse out of you and me."

"So you were never going to ring me?"

"Did I say I was?"

"Stella, I'm not interested in a cat-and-mouse game. I'll need you to be open with me, wether I'll like it or not. A straight answer would suffice."

"I think this is where you seem to have mistaken me," Stella said, "I don't need to do anything."

Her statement surprised him in a laugh. "You've always been all bark and no bite," he told her, almost wistfully. "Listen. There's this thing a friend of mine - ours actually - a birthday bash. I want you to be my plus one."

"What's the dress code like?"

He shrugged. "Black tie I'm assuming,"

She gave him a knowing look. "When is it?"

He blinked. "I'm not sure,"

"Who's going to be there?"

"A lot of people?"

"Christ. Do you actual know anything about this party?"

Caleb laughed self-deprecatingly. "I'll...inquire about it, I swear!"

This time she laughed and the sound of it is melodious. Infectious. Being in her presence was intoxicating in its own devastating way and he soaked it all in. Let his chin dip, felt his eyes blink drowsily.

A conspirator's grin played on her lips as she watched him. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"I'm just..."

"Dwelling?" She mocked.

"Reflecting."

A quiet blanketed them for a time. Until Caleb said: "Did you save room in your belly for more afters?"

Pushing away the remnants of her almond granita, she asked, "Depends. What do you have in mind?"

You. Always you.

Caleb grinned, fondly. "So you still have a sweet tooth, I see. Excellent, I've been eying their gelato."