Page 152 of The Other Side

“So, these are the options I have.”

The jewelry clerk’s voice jolts me into the present. His weathered fingers intrude my line of sight as he lays the thin chains on the glass counter.

My eyes skate over the choices, each one simpler than the next. Even if I did have money, or come from it, a gaudy piece of jewelry isn’t Callie’s style.

That wouldn’t suit her.

Not at all.

She doesn’t need a large piece of jewelry to make her stand out from the crowd. She already does that. This is her.

Simple.

Elegant.

Effortlessly beautiful.

My Callie.

Then I point to the chain that caught my eye first. “That one.”

A breath tumbles from my mouth, my lungs idling. Callie lowers the gold pendant, walking along the perimeter of the dance floor. The second verse of Ed Sheeran’s hit threads through the air, and my legs fall in sync.

I walk along the length of the marble from the opposite direction as her. Our eyes are locked, our bodies reflecting the same motion.

There’re bundles of people sprinkled between us, but our gazes never sever under the subtle hues of light.

Hundreds of miles couldn’t sway our attention over the last ten years. There’s no amount of people between us that can shift it now.

Every step represents something Callie and I conquered a lifetime ago.

We’re crushing every hurdle we had to jump. Every hoop we had to fly through. Just to land under these elegant chandeliers in prettier clothes.

And in the end, this moment is no different from the ones we shared when we were young. The aesthetic is different, but the feeling is the same.

Because as she gravitates toward me now, I feel indestructible.

Superhuman.

Alive.

I slowly inch over the marble, prepared to seal the distance between us.

The silhouette of her dress sways between the people scattered about, and she paints color in this room. Just like she always did. Just like I’ve always thought of her.

Her hair is pinned back in a half-up, half-down style, but a couple loose strands frame her face. Her earlobes are free of gaudy earrings, and there’s no tennis necklace around her throat.

The only accessory she chose to wear is the simple piece of jewelry I gave her when I had nothing.

She looks like Callie.

My Callie.

She’s home.

Callie Rae

We’re a mere inch apart, and the pad of Brant’s index finger scoops up the gold sunflower pendant. His touch sweeps a warm tingle over my skin, his hazel stare stitched to the basic piece.