Page 54 of The Other Side

A cozy glow radiates from the frosted glass of the porch light. When I follow the bend of the driveway, my heartbeat snowballs in volume with each step I take.

I march up the wooden planks of the porch, biting my lip when I push the doorbell button. Another breath huffs from my lungs as my hands tousle my hair.

I drop my arms at my sides, flicking my gaze in any direction from the focal point. Then my palms rub against my jeans. I’m trying to drain the jumbled nerves from my body, but my efforts are futile.

My head whips forward when the front door swings open. Brant’s face greets me on the other side, his short-clipped hair styled in a subtle disarray.

“Callie.”

Distress lathers his voice. My eyes drop to his hand tugging the hem of his gray crewneck, and I get a glimpse of the ridges of his lower abs.

But they’re concealed too soon.

My eyes linger on the leather strap of his belt, the nighttime obscuring the scene. I’m unsure if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but I decide it’s loosened.

“Callie, what are you doing here?”

I snap my gaze back to his, swallowing thickly when I study the way his jaw sets in discomfort. His dark brows barely pinch together, but the uneasiness oozes from him anyway.

I’m about to explain myself, parting my lips when a feminine voice wedges into my ears.

“Brant, who is it?”

Mortification pools in my bloodstream as all the pieces merge together in my mind.

“I’ll be right there, okay?”

Brant’s peeking over his shoulder, but I’m already spinning on my heels. My legs gallop down the porch at lightning speed, and I practically jog down the length of the driveway to reach my Range Rover.

I don’t want an apology. I don’t care for an explanation. I just want to drive home, curl up in a fetal position, and wallow in my shame.

Shame that I rightfully deserve.

“Callie! Hey!”

My palm cups my mouth as my sneakers hit the asphalt of the road. I turn, heading toward my car as I refuse to flick a hair in Brant’s direction.

The handle of the door finally pierces my view, and my vision tunnels. I stretch an arm out, my palm snatching the metal lever like my life depends on it.

But to my dismay, a large hand clutches my upper arm to swivel me around. “Just stop for a goddamn minute,” Brant demands.

I yank my arm out of his grasp, teeth setting together as I scold him. “Don’t touch me,” I grit out. “Especially after⁠—”

“Do it, Callie,” he growls, his pupils blown with anger. “I dare you to make me look like the bad guy. To make it like I’m wrong. To make it like I would ever fucking do this to you.”

My stare narrows, chest pinching when I realize he’s trapping me. The worst part is, he’s right. I have no rhyme or reason to be upset with him. I have a fiancé that I’m laying down with every night, and it just so happens this was really shitty timing on my part.

Really shitty timing.

But god, my heart aches so bad.

What happened to us?

What happened to that boy and girl in Willowhart? The boy and girl who lived on a single prayer—us.

We were that prayer.

Us.