Chapter 13 - Callan’s Journal
I waited three weeks before reading the journal.
Nathan had provided copies relevant to legal matters.
The rest was offered to Callan first.
Through his attorney, he authorized me to receive pages mentioning me.
I almost refused.
Then curiosity won.
The first entry was dated eight months before we met.
Mom says Reed’s daughter is the easiest path.
I hated reading that.
The next:
Saw her at the store today from the parking lot. She was helping an old man load lumber. Doesn’t look like someone who would care about money.
Another:
Introduced myself. Asked for brass fitting. She knew I was lying about what I needed because she asked what system it was for.
I smiled despite myself.
I remembered.
Callan had described a plumbing configuration that made no sense.
I assumed he was clueless.
Apparently he was nervous.
Next entry:
This is supposed to be business. I stayed forty minutes talking about her grandmother.
Then:
Mom told me to ask about Martin’s retirement. I didn’t.
Then:
Ana laughed today and I forgot why I was there.
I closed the journal.
That line hurt.
Not because it proved innocence.
Because it proved conflict.
Callan had not fabricated every feeling.
He had simply allowed his family’s plan to coexist beside them.
That was worse in its own way.
Later entries became darker.
Dad says if I don’t finish this, he’ll put Brooklyn on the trust committee and freeze my distributions.
Mom says Ana will sign anything once we’re married.
I told them no more fake filings.
They laughed.
Then, six months before our wedding:
Ana’s father added her to the property trust. Mom says this solves everything.
I told Ana we should postpone the wedding.
She looked hurt.
I changed my mind.
I wish I could tell which choice was mine anymore.
The final entries before the lunch were desperate.
Warren says the lender will pull out if Ana doesn’t sign management authority.
She thinks the tablet is refinancing acknowledgment.
I told myself I would undo it later.
That sentence made me furious.
Later.
The favorite promise of cowards.
Hurt someone now.
Fix it later.
Lie now.
Confess later.
Steal now.
Return it later.
Then the morning of the lunch:
Ana is quiet today. She asked why Mom invited everyone.
I almost told her.
I should tell her.
If she leaves, maybe that’s what I deserve.
Then:
Mom called. Said Brooklyn will help straighten things out.
I don’t like the way she said it.
Last entry.
Written after the incident from the hospital.
I hit her.
There is no excuse after that sentence.
I read it again.
I hit her.
There is no excuse after that sentence.
Then:
Mom wants me to say Ana attacked me without warning.
That would be a lie.
I told police she was angry.
That was also a lie.
I can’t keep doing this.
But he did.
For several more days.
Until the camera made lying harder than telling the truth.
I closed the journal.
Ethan was sitting across from me on my porch.
I had told him what I was reading.
He didn’t ask to see.
“What did you learn?” he asked.
“That Callan knew better.”
“That sounds painful.”
“It is.”
I looked toward the street.
“I used to think the worst possibility was that he never loved me.”
“And now?”
“The worst possibility is that he did and still chose all of it.”
Ethan nodded.
“People can feel something real and still act terribly.”
“Evelyn said almost the same thing.”
“She sounds smart.”
“She is.”
He didn’t try to comfort me with easy answers.
That was one reason I trusted him.
Later that night, I finished the pages.
One final entry had been written months after Callan began cooperating.
Ana asked if I loved her.
I said yes.
I watched her face and realized love was the wrong question.
The real question was whether I protected her when protecting her cost me something.
I didn’t.
That was the closest thing to an apology I needed.
Not “I loved you.”
Not “I was afraid.”
Not “my family pressured me.”
He finally understood.
Love measured only by feeling is cheap.
Love becomes real when it costs you comfort, approval, money, ego, convenience.
Callan failed exactly when loving me became expensive.
I returned the journal copies to Nathan.
“You don’t want them?”
“No.”
“Want me to destroy your copies?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
No ceremony.
No burning letter.
No dramatic goodbye.
Just paper into shredding.
A month later, Ethan asked me to take a weekend trip.
Sedona.
I laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
He looked confused.
“Honeymoon.”
“Oh.”
“Terrible symbolism.”
“Flagstaff?”
“Better.”
We drove north.
Sophie came too.
We stayed in a cabin.
Built a fire.
Burned marshmallows.
Hiked badly.
Nothing dramatic happened.
It was wonderful.
On our last night, Sophie fell asleep on the couch while Ethan and I sat outside.
He took my hand.
I stiffened automatically.
He immediately released it.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
I reached back.
Took his hand again.
“I’m okay.”
He didn’t squeeze too tightly.
Didn’t make the moment bigger than it was.
We sat beneath the cold Arizona sky.
For years I had believed romance needed to feel like fireworks.
Callan brought flowers to my work.
Surprised me with luxury weekends.
Proposed at sunset.
Ethan remembered I hated raisins.
He fixed my porch light without being asked.
He respected doors.
Maybe safety wasn’t boring.
Maybe safety was what allowed love to become interesting for the right reasons.
Then Sophie called from inside:
“Dad, your snoring woke me up and you’re not even sleeping!”
We both burst out laughing.
May you like
The past didn’t disappear that night.
But for the first time, the future felt louder.
