Page 32 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

FRASER

T he first snow of winter arrived two weeks later, transforming Forestville into something out of a Christmas card.

Fat flakes drifted past the kitchen window as I nursed my second cup of coffee, watching the world turn white and quiet.

My knee ached with the weather change, a dull throb that had become as familiar as breathing.

Calloway was still asleep upstairs. We’d fallen into an easy rhythm—most nights at his place, some at mine, the boundaries between our lives blurring in ways that brought a profound joy.

Most of my clothes had made their way into his closets and drawers, and on Sundays—laundry day, according to Calloway’s schedule—we now washed both our clothes.

My phone buzzed with a text from Morrison, another update about the January training program. Equipment lists, housing options, and schedule confirmations. Each message made it more real, more imminent. Four weeks away from this quiet life I’d built. Four weeks away with Calloway.

But not away from him. I still couldn’t believe he’d said yes to coming with me, brave and terrified in equal measure.

We’d found a small house in Missoula that we were renting for that period, a space where we could create our own temporary sanctuary.

The thought of showing him my old world, of having him there to come home to after long days of teaching, made the whole thing feel less like a step backward and more like integration.

Past and present. Who I was and who I was becoming.

I heard movement upstairs—the creak of floorboards, water running. A few minutes later, Calloway appeared in the doorway, wearing one of my flannels over his pajama pants. His hair was adorably mussed, and he still had pillow creases on his cheek.

“M-morning,” he mumbled, making a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Morning, sweetheart.” The endearment had become natural, slipping out without thought. “Sleep well?”

He nodded, pouring coffee with the focused attention of someone not quite awake yet. When he’d doctored it to his liking—two sugars, no cream—he settled into the chair beside me, our knees touching under the table.

“S-snow,” he observed, gazing out the window.

“First real snow of the season. The weather report says we might get four inches.”

“Good day to st-stay inside.”

“Definitely.” I reached over to take his free hand, threading our fingers together. “Though I was thinking we might venture out later to test that new snow gear we bought for you for Montana.”

Calloway’s eyes widened slightly. We’d gone shopping last week for winter clothes for him that were suitable for Missoula’s harsher climate, and he’d been adorably overwhelmed by the options. “The p-parka makes me look like a m-marshmallow.”

“A very cute marshmallow. Besides, you’ll be grateful for it when we’re dealing with Montana winters.”

He took a sip of coffee, and I could see him processing, that little furrow appearing between his brows that meant he was thinking hard about something. “Do you think your f-family will want to meet me? While we’re there?”

The question caught me off guard, though it shouldn’t have. Of course he’d been thinking about this—Calloway thought about everything, turned it over in his mind like a worry stone until the edges were smooth.

“I haven’t told them yet. About you. About us.”

His face didn’t change, but I felt the slight tension in his hand. “Oh.”

“Not because…” I stopped, reorganizing my thoughts. “My family and I talk about work, weather, safe things. I haven’t told them about you because I wanted to keep you separate from that. Protected.”

“P-protected from what?”

“From their questions. Their assumptions. Their inability to see past their own narrow view of what my life should look like.” I turned to face him more fully. “If you want to meet them, we can make that happen, but I don’t know how that will go.”

Calloway studied me with those perceptive hazel eyes. “You’re af-fraid they won’t approve. Of m-me.”

“Not you as a person, but you for what you represent. The undeniable proof that their son and brother really is gay.”

He was quiet for a moment, then: “I d-don’t need to m-meet them. Only if you w-w-want us to. It won’t change who or w-what we are.”

Sometimes he said things that knocked the breath right out of me. Simple truths delivered with such matter-of-fact grace that I wondered how I’d gotten so lucky.

“Have I told you today that you’re incredible?”

Pink crept up his neck. “It’s only eight-th-thirty.”

“Then I’m behind schedule.” I lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re incredible.”

He ducked his head, but I caught the pleased smile before he hid it behind his coffee mug.

We spent the morning in comfortable domesticity.

Calloway worked on his memoir while I reviewed the training materials Morrison had sent.

The snow continued to fall, muffling the outside world until it felt like we were in our own private bubble.

Every so often, one of us would share something—a particularly good sentence, a funny incident report from years past—but mostly we just existed in the same space, content.

Around noon, I convinced him to bundle up and venture outside.

The parka did make him look a bit like a marshmallow, but an incredibly endearing one.

We walked slowly through the neighborhood, my cane providing extra stability on the fresh snow.

Calloway kept pace beside me, occasionally pointing out how the familiar landscape had transformed.

“L-look,” he said, stopping in front of Gladys’s house. “The gnomes have h-hats.”

Sure enough, Gladys had put tiny knitted caps on all her garden gnomes. They looked absurdly cheerful, poking out of the snow.

“Think she knitted them herself?” I asked.

“D-definitely. She knits during b-book club too. She s-says her hands c-can’t stay still.”

We continued on, making a slow circuit of the neighborhood. A few kids were already out building snowmen, their laughter bright against the muffled quiet. One of them waved at us—one of the Frant girls, I thought—and Calloway waved back.

“This is n-nice,” he said softly. “Being out in the world t-together.”

I knew what he meant. For so long, he’d moved through Forestville like a ghost, seen but not really noticed. Now we were a unit, a couple taking a winter walk, normal and extraordinary at the same time.

We returned to Calloway’s house with cold fingers and red cheeks, stamping snow off our boots on the porch. He shucked his marshmallow parka and hung it carefully on the hook in the entryway.

I pulled off my own layers, flexing my right knee, which was already stiff from the cold. The walk had been worth it though. Seeing the gnomes in their caps, the kids building lopsided snowmen, and Calloway’s delighted smile had made every ache disappear into the background.

“Tea?” he asked, heading into the kitchen.

“God, yes.” I followed him, letting the warmth of the house seep into my bones. He moved with his usual grace, pulling mugs from the cabinet and setting the kettle on without a word. Somehow, we always fell into a rhythm in his kitchen, like a song we both knew by heart.

I leaned against the counter, watching him move, feeling that quiet contentment that had become my new normal.

If you’d told me a year ago I’d be spending a snowy afternoon in a small town with a poet-librarian who looked like he’d stepped out of a dream, I would’ve laughed.

Yet here I was. Still stunned by the sheer rightness of it all.

Then his phone rang. Nothing unusual about that, except we both froze.

He checked the screen.

“It’s m-my mother,” he said, his voice already quieter, thinner.

I stepped forward instinctively. “You don’t have to answer.”

“I do.” He gave me a small, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “She’ll keep calling if I d-don’t.”

I nodded, brushing my fingers along his wrist as he answered, putting it on speaker. He grabbed my hand, and I stayed right next to him.

“Hello, M-M-Mother.”

His back was rigid, shoulders drawn in like he was bracing for impact, and his voice was so controlled, so careful.

“Calloway. I’m calling to get your flight information.”

“F-for what?”

“For Christmas, of course. You’re celebrating with us.”

She delivered it as a statement, which was baffling because I knew Calloway had not agreed to this.

“No, M-Mother, I w-won’t be c-coming to Florida f-for Christmas.” His stutter was back in full force now, making him trip over every other word. I hated that she did this to him, that she made him feel like he had to defend his life, his choices, his very existence. “I already t-t-told you?—”

“But you need to get out of that dreary town and catch some sunshine. It’ll be good for you.”

“N-no, I don’t want to l-leave Forestville. I’m st-staying here.”

“If you always stay in the same place, nothing will ever change. You’ll always be…like this.”

I had to fight to keep myself from reacting because the implication was clear.

“I’m not br-br-broken.”

That last word was a whisper, but it landed like a thunderclap in my chest. Calloway was holding on to me with all his might, his other hand gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

“I’m n-not broken,” he repeated, stronger this time. “And if you c-c-can’t accept that, then you n-n-need to st-stop calling me.”

A pause. A long one. I thought maybe she’d ended the call.

When her voice came back, it was quiet, shaky, and nothing like her previous cocky self-assuredness. “Calloway…” A single, trembling word that sounded like it had splintered something inside her.

Calloway’s hand on my arm tightened.

“I’m sorry…” A quiet gasp flew from Calloway’s lips. “I never wanted to hurt you. I only ever wanted to make things easier. I thought… I thought if I could just fix the stutter, I could atone for what I did, for how I failed you.”

Calloway made a small sound, almost like a whimper. I wasn’t sure if his mother even heard it.

“I remember that day in excruciating detail. Your cousins were so rambunctious, and I was worried they’d be mean to you.

But you wanted to play with them so badly, and I didn’t want to disappoint you.

And so I let you go.” Her voice broke. “And I had to use the bathroom, and your dad walked with me ’cause I wasn’t sure where it was.

Five minutes. We were gone for five minutes. ”

She sniffled a few times, and when she spoke again, her voice was trembling.

“I’ve thought about that moment every day for forty-three years. Wondering what would’ve happened if I’d just kept my eyes on you. If I’d said no. If I’d kept you with me. If I hadn’t gone to the bathroom…”

A harsh breath. Then a sob, and my heart broke for her, even though so far, she’d given me precious little reason to like her. But her anguish now was clear, and it rang true to me.

“I’ve tried so hard to make up for it,” she said through tears. “The therapy. The books. The exercises. It wasn’t about fixing you, not really. It was about undoing what I let happen. About atoning for what I had caused with my negligence. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t undo it.”

Calloway’s eyes filled with tears, but he remained silent.

“I’ve failed you in so many ways, Calloway. I wanted you to have a good life. To not feel like something was wrong with you.”

“There isn’t,” Calloway finally spoke, voice hoarse. “There’s n-nothing wrong with m-me.”

“You’re right. There was something wrong with me, not you,” she whispered. “And I’m sorry it took me this long to say it aloud.”

The silence was softer now. Not heavy with expectation or disappointment, like before, but pliable. Honest.

Calloway sighed. “I d-don’t blame you. Not for what happened. I n-n-never have.”

She sobbed again, muffled this time.

“But I n-need you to st-stop trying to rewrite who I am. I’ve w-worked so hard to b-be okay with myself. And I am. I’m happy. I have s-s-someone in my life who sees me. Who l-listens.”

“I want to meet him. I want to…try again. If you’ll let me.”

He wiped his face with his sleeve. “M-maybe. One day. But you have to s-s-show me you accept m-me first. As I am. The st-st-stutter. The quiet. All of it.”

“I will. I promise. No more trying to change you. Just…share your life with me, honey. That’s all I want now.”

Calloway closed his eyes. “Okay.”

A beat. Then two.

“I love you, sweetheart,” she said, voice raw.

“I l-love you too, M-Mom.”

He ended the call, then stood there, the phone still in his hand, as if he were unsure what to do next.

I slid my arms around him from behind, pulling him against my chest. He leaned in, closing his eyes. “You okay?”

He let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I th-think I am.”

I turned him gently in my arms, brushing my thumb across his damp cheek. “You were amazing. I’m proud of you. That was brave as hell.”

“She said she was s-s-sorry.”

“She sounded like she meant it.”

“She did.” He leaned his forehead against mine. “She’s b-been trying to fix me all these years because she thought I was br-broken. The stutter, the silence… She thought it was her f-fault.”

“Was it?”

“M-maybe she sh-should’ve paid m-more attention. But I n-never blamed her. And I’m not br-broken.” His voice steadied. “I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” I said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re whole.”

He wrapped his arms around me, holding on tight.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, quiet and beautiful. Inside, we stood silently, finding and giving comfort in equal measure.