Page 103 of The Havenport Collection

Callum

“ W hat the fuck, dude?” Declan seethed, following me into my condo.

He had generously picked me up at urgent care after I got an exam and an IV bag full of fluids.

Turned out I was dangerously dehydrated.

Nurse Katie gave me a verbal ass-kicking and sent me on my way.

I assumed in a matter of hours my mother would hear about it, and this day would get exponentially worse.

I shrugged.

“How did you get so dehydrated? How did your blood sugar get so fucked up? What is going on with you?”

I chugged a glass of water and prayed for this heinous headache to go away.

“Tell me,” he pushed. Since Declan fell in love with the fearless Astrid, he had become a lot pushier about communication and talking and shit. It was annoying. We used to just get drunk and grunt at each other. Now he wanted me to use words. Ugh.

I collapsed on my couch with my water and some crackers. “I had a bad night.”

He walked through my living room to the large windows that faced the ocean. I had bought this place after my divorce for the view. It was small and weirdly sterile, but the ocean was so soothing.

“Insomnia?” he asked, his back to me as he studied the horizon.

“Sort of.” I removed my vomit-stained shirt and hunted around in my laundry pile for a fresh one. “I drank a bit to help me sleep, and the early morning run didn’t help matters.”

He turned and raised an eyebrow. Declan had a terrible stutter growing up and really struggled to speak.

I’m only a year older than he is and protected him throughout childhood.

Not that he needed much protecting. He was broader, stronger, and rocked the long hair and shaggy beard combo popularized by motorcycle gangs and Instagram models.

But nonetheless, we had developed a bond and frequently spoke without really speaking.

He could say a lot with a raised eyebrow.

I pulled on the clean shirt and shuffled over to the kitchen where I lifted the embossed envelope off the quartz countertop. I flung it at him, and he picked it up, studying it as if he were defusing a bomb.

Slowly, he peeled back the ostentatious layers of paper, and his eyes widened. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Those fuckers,” he breathed. “You’re not going.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

“Of course not,” I replied.

“Okay, good.” He walked over to the glass-encased gas fireplace. “Does this ridiculous thing work?” he asked, looking for the remote.

“I’m not burning it.”

“Why not? The only use for this is as kindling.” He wasn’t wrong.

I ripped it out of his hands and carefully packed the various papers into the envelope.

“So this is why you got drunk and decided to sprint ten miles like an asshole this morning?” he mused out loud. I didn’t respond.

“And you hit rock bottom in front of your high school girlfriend? Wow…” He knew me too well. He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Cal.”

I knew the whiskey was a mistake. But I had received an emotional grenade in the mail. I got an invitation. To my ex-wife’s wedding. I knew she was getting married to my former best friend and roommate, but I certainly did not expect to receive an invitation to celebrate their wedded bliss.

What kind of assholes did that? Why on earth would they want me there?

The envelope was obnoxious. It weighed like five pounds and had a bunch of superfluous paper in it. Why did people do that? Was it a status symbol to kill more trees or something? Those demons deserved each other.

So I did the logical thing. I poured myself a glass of whiskey and sat down with my laptop.

First I started at the wedding website they listed on the invitation.

It made me want to vomit. Lots of cutesy photos and a “relationship timeline.” There was even a ridiculous “experience” registry where they asked for gift cards for date nights and other cheesy shit that no one actually needs.

When Becca and I got married, we didn’t do any of this crap. We both wanted something small and traditional. We didn’t create a hashtag or have a donut wall, for fuck’s sake. We were in love and wanted to make it legal as soon as possible.

Looking back, maybe she wanted all this stuff. The pomp and circumstance and five figure wedding dress? Becca always was pretty materialistic.

After the wedding website, I needed another glass of whiskey, at which point I didn’t have the good sense to get off the Internet.

Instead, I decided to peruse their Instagram feeds, where I was treated to the full spectrum of their love.

Skiing trips, family holidays, and the designer kitten they bought that Becca carried around in a Vuitton purse.

I hated them. I hated them so much. So I kept drinking and I kept scrolling until I eventually passed out around two a.m.

My alarm started blaring at five thirty, so I got up and did what I do every day—throw on my sneakers and run.

The Annual Patriot’s Homecoming Road Race was in a few weeks, and I needed to stick to my training plan.

I came in fourth last year, and I knew I had a shot this year if I just pushed myself hard enough.

“I still can’t believe it was Violet Thompson who found you.” Declan chuckled softly, and I wished I had the strength to punch him right now.

“Trust me. It was terrible, okay? She still hates me from high school.”

“You are so cocky. I’m sure that woman has more to worry about than something that happened twenty years ago.”

“I don’t know…I tend to make an impression on the ladies.” I flexed, and Declan threw a pillow at me. I was joking, of course, but part of me hoped I did. I thought Violet hating me would be bad, but her forgetting about me would be way worse, right?

“Why don’t you come over tonight?” Declan asked, taking the empty glass out of my hand and heading to the sink to refill it.

“Astrid and I are smoking a brisket, and we’re going to watch Succession .

Come hang out with us.” Declan lived up on a secluded bluff in a house he had mostly built himself.

My family called it the fortress of solitude because he never invited anyone over.

Now that Astrid lived there with him, he occasionally allowed us to cross the threshold.

Declan was a surprisingly excellent cook, so he at least made it worth our while to visit.

“No, thanks, I’m just going to hydrate and go to bed.

” It was a lie. I would probably stay up all night obsessing about this morning’s events, but I couldn’t tell him that.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Violet and what she must think of me.

Seeing her took me back to high school, and I was consumed by thoughts of her.

Her smile, her hair, her fun yet sassy attitude.

I needed to relive today’s events and beat myself up for a while.

It was what I did. I overthought, I obsessed, and I researched and second-guessed myself constantly. And this morning was one for the record books. Despite my inner turmoil, I was usually pretty smooth and charming in social situations. But this—this was complete humiliation.

On the surface I had always been successful. I excelled in high school academically and athletically and ended up at Dartmouth where I was able to walk on to the soccer team. After four years of D1 athletics and a summa cum laude degree in economics, I headed to business school.

I had spent years as a financial planner and advisor helping rich people get richer.

It was well paid work, but not exactly satisfying.

About six years ago I decided to strike out on my own.

This gave me more control over what I was doing and allowed me to devote a lot of my time to managing the finances for our family business, Quinn Fisheries.

I was not a fisherman, but the gravity of the business and its importance was handed down to me via DNA.

My great-grandfather came to Havenport as a teenager after buying a ticket on a ship headed to America at sixteen years old.

He toiled away and then my grandfather did one better by buying his own boat.

My father inherited that boat and turned it into one of the largest commercial fishing fleets in the region.

After his heart attack last year, my father was easing into retirement, and my brother Declan was succeeding him as CEO.

There was never a question of my becoming a fisherman.

My parents and teachers had been pushing me for more since I learned to read at age three.

I was always bright, and school came easily to me.

This resulted in constant praise and pressure to be the best, to score the highest, and to never disappoint all the people who had invested in my success.

So I didn’t. I got straight As, volunteered, and did everything right.

I excelled in all areas and learned to be kind and gracious to everyone in the process.

I made my parents and my community proud.

It was what I had been conditioned to do since birth, and I performed my role beautifully.

I met Becca in business school. She was ambitious, driven, and beautiful.

We were perfect for each other. Both type A overachievers who loved to work and were painfully competitive.

After a few years in the city, I missed my hometown and convinced Becca to move back to Havenport.

We bought a huge house in West Haven on several acres.

It was perfect for a growing family—great neighborhood, amazing yard with a built-in pool, and close to my parents.

We started to fight a lot about kids. I wanted them badly, and she had always said she felt the same way. We had both hit thirty, and I was anxious to get started on building our family. Becca had no interest and would get angry whenever I brought it up.

One day, she came home and calmly told me she didn’t want to be married anymore. I was shocked. She said she couldn’t deal with my “crazy” anymore. She said that my anxiety ruined our marriage, and she wasn’t in love with me anymore.

She was so confused when I got upset and suggested counseling. She didn’t want to be married to me. End of story. She was not interested in continuing the relationship. She packed up her things and was out of the house in a few hours.

Declan poured himself a glass of water and settled in on my couch, watching the boats coming in and out of the harbor.

“I’m really sorry, Cal,” he said, never taking his eyes off the horizon. “But as your brother and your friend, you’ve got to get out of this funk. Call your therapist.”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you big brothering me right now? That’s my job.”

He laughed. “I hate it. I don’t want to give fucking pep talks. Please get yourself together so I never have to do this again.”

I punched his shoulder.

“I mean it. We are here for you. Me, Astrid, Liam, Cece, Trent, Mom and Dad. We all love you, okay? Don’t be afraid to reach out for help.”

“I don’t need help,” I snapped like a petulant child. Wow. Way to go. Nothing like a bratty response to show just how much help you need.

“You do. And I’m not going to force you. But you know what to do and how to ask.” He gave me a knowing look.

That was just it. I didn’t know what to do. None of my old coping mechanisms worked anymore. I couldn’t distract myself with exercise, work, or sex. I couldn’t buy myself a new car or go on a ski trip and make it all go away. I needed to deal with my shit. Do the work. And I was terrified.

My thoughts wandered to Violet. I knew she was divorced and had kids—the Havenport rumor mill was remarkably efficient on that front—and I knew she had taken over the Thompson Farm after her dad passed away.

But I found myself wanting to know so much more.

Seeing her, and spending a few minutes with her, had awakened something within me.

I was curious, motivated, and excited for the first time in years.

Becca and I didn’t have a great marriage. Far from it. But I hated being divorced. I hated failing at something. Especially something as fundamental as marriage.

She was so perfect on paper. And I wanted to be successful.

So marrying someone who I was compatible with, who had similar life goals, just seemed like a good choice.

Looking back, I was just lying to myself, trying to create some perfect image in my mind that had no basis in reality.

I was on track. I had everything I was supposed to want.

I had a great job, an impressive house, and a beautiful, brilliant wife.

But things got worse. My anxiety increased, I stopped sleeping, and every day felt like an endless marathon.

Turns out getting everything you wanted wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

I hated that I failed. I hated that I couldn’t do something right.

I hated that I tried my best and it didn’t work out.

Logically I knew that these things happened, but practically I just couldn’t accept it.

Why wasn’t I good enough? She said she didn’t want to be married, but clearly she just did not want to be married to me. And that stung.

Because I would have done anything to make it work, to succeed.

But that was the problem. I was so obsessed with success that I would have stayed in a bad marriage to someone who barely tolerated me.

I wanted to check the boxes, I wanted to achieve my goals, but I lost sight of what was truly important—partnership, love, respect, and family.

I knew better now. I had failed spectacularly and learned from it. But it wasn’t going to do me any good unless I made different choices—better choices—in the future.

But it wasn't Becca who occupied my every waking thought at the moment. One woman had taken up residence in my head and didn’t want to leave. Violet Thompson.