Page 7

Chapter Six

Calum

The storm outside rattles the windows of Holiday House, its relentless fury clawing at the old wooden frame like it wants in. Inside, the air is damp, heavy with salt and the faintest trace of her perfume. She lingers in the fibers of the drapes, the upholstery, even the walls.

I lean against the fireplace mantle, its granite surface cool under my palm, and let my gaze drift across the room.

Her presence is everywhere. One of her silk scarves is draped over the back of the couch, the deep crimson a splash of color against the muted tones of the room.

A part of me wants to grab it, bury my face in it, inhale what’s left of her.

But I won’t.

Instead, I turn back to the easel in the corner. The painting I’d been working on—the two of us, caught in an endless summer—sits unfinished. Her face is only a suggestion of a face, lines that imply her cheekbones, her eyes, her mouth. I can’t bring myself to finish it. I’m not sure I ever will.

The storm grows louder, a roar that vibrates in my chest. I grab the first canvas leaning against the wall and pull it out of the pile.

It’s one of hers, one of the abstract pieces she dabbled in when she was bored or restless.

Bold, chaotic strokes of color, a mess of emotions she never admitted to.

I hated these paintings. I told her once they looked like something a child would smear across the walls.

She just laughed, tipping her head back so her black hair caught the light. “Art isn’t meant to be understood, darling,” she said. “It’s meant to be felt.”

“Is that why you feel nothing?” I asked.

Her smile faltered for just a second before it snapped back into place. “Careful, Calum,” she warned, her voice sweet and sharp as honeyed glass. “You’re sounding a little jealous.”

Of course I was jealous. She never gave herself fully to anything—not to her art, not to this house, not even to me.

She flitted through life like a butterfly, beautiful and ephemeral, leaving wreckage in her wake.

I’ve long since realized my tendency to love things that need love, not the ones that are available to love me back.

My love for her was often bitter and painful but somehow still necessary, the ultimate expression of my humanness, my own miserable mortality.

Falling in love with Annabel was easy, falling out of love impossible.

I set her painting aside and reach for another.

This one is mine—a portrait of her, painted early in our relationship when her laugh still felt like sunlight and her touch like salvation.

Her eyes are too large, too dark, her mouth curved in a way that feels more cruel than kind.

Even then, I must have known. Even then, I was trying to capture the part of her that would destroy me.

I flip the canvas over, intending to set it aside, but something catches my eye. A slip of paper, yellowed and brittle, wedged between the canvas and the frame. I pull it free, careful not to tear it, and unfold it slowly .

The handwriting is unmistakable. Loopy and dramatic, her penmanship as theatrical as everything else about her.

Calum, it begins, I’m not sure if you’ll ever find this, but I hope you do. I hope you’re looking for me.

My hands tremble as I read, the words blurring together. The letter is short, no more than a few paragraphs, but every sentence is a dagger to the heart.

I know I’ve been cruel to you. I know you think I don’t care, but I do. You’re the only person I’ve ever truly cared about. That scares me, you know. Love like this isn’t supposed to exist. It’s too big, too consuming. It’ll swallow us whole.

I sit down hard on the floor, the letter clutched in my hand.

The storm outside seems to fade, its howling winds muffled by the pounding of blood in my ears.

This is her voice, her thoughts, her soul poured onto the page.

But it doesn’t make sense. Annabel was never one to admit vulnerability.

She wore her aloofness like armor, her indifference a shield against anyone who dared to get too close.

You’ve always seen through me, though. That’s what I hate most about you. That’s what I love most about you. You see me, and you stay anyway.

I laugh, the sound hollow and bitter. Stay? She’s the one who left. She’s the one who slipped away in the dead of night, leaving nothing but an empty bed and a phone call from the police hours later.

The letter slips from my fingers, floating to the floor like a dead leaf. I stare at it, the words burned into my mind.

I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I’m sorry for what I’ll do. But you have to understand—some things are bigger than love. Some things are bigger than us.

The room feels colder now, the chill seeping into my bones. I pick up the letter again, scanning it for some hidden meaning, some clue that will make it all make sense. But there’s nothing. Just her words, her confessions, her lies .

Because that’s what this has to be, right? A lie. Another one of her games, her manipulations. She knew how to play me better than anyone, how to twist the knife just enough to hurt without breaking me completely.

But this feels different. This feels real. Too real.

The storm has calmed by the time I stand up, the winds reduced to a whisper, the rain to a soft patter against the windows. I fold the letter carefully and slip it into my pocket. I can’t leave it here, not in this house, not with the rest of her ghosts.

The painting stares at me, her half-formed face a mockery of the woman I thought I knew. I pull it from the easel and prop it against the wall, turning it to face the corner like a child being punished.

“I hate you,” I whisper, the words tasting like ash. “I hate that you’re gone. I hate that you’re still here.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

The fire has burned itself out, the embers glowing faintly in the hearth. I pour myself a glass of whiskey and sit in the armchair, the letter heavy in my pocket. I don’t take it out again. Not yet.

Instead, I stare into the dying fire, the orange light flickering across the walls, and let the memories wash over me.

Her laugh, sharp and wild, cutting through the stillness of a summer night.

The way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, her eyes soft and unguarded.

The way she tore me apart with a single word, a single glance.

I loved her. I still love her. I’ll always love her. My love is irrational, unreasonable, forever bittersweet.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I will love her to the edge of my own doom. Not even the decay of our passion was reason enough to forget. But maybe the exquisite torture is a torture worth bearing.

The storm has passed completely by the time I climb the stairs to bed, the house eerily quiet in its wake. I pause in the doorway of the bedroom, my gaze falling on the unmade bed, the scattered clothes, the faint outline of her body still imprinted in the mattress.

I lie down on my side of the bed, the letter still in my pocket, and close my eyes.

I dream of her that night, as I always do.

She’s standing on the cliffs, her hair whipping around her face, her arms outstretched like she’s about to take flight.

She turns to me, her smile wide and wild, and then she’s gone, swallowed by the sea.

I wake with a start, my chest heaving, my heart pounding. The house is silent, the shadows long and deep.

And I know, in that moment, that I’ll never be free of her. Not while I’m alive. Not even after.