“Weird little dance routine to Wannabe?” She recoils in faux horror. “I’ll have you know it’s the actual dance routine from the video, Cal.” She laughs, “I really failed you as an educator of culture if you don’t know that.”
“It was hurtful when he left,” she pauses, “and it hurt for a long while afterwards–but I was just about in the clear when he showed back up here a successful author. And what do I have to show for the last decade, Cal? A middling career as an artist, a dead mom, and working at the same place I worked as a teenager?”
Hurtful puts it lightly, she’s afraid. Some days hurtful was the right word for it–a dull ache in her chest that only occasionally flared. Other days, though–especially recently after losing her mother, those two heartbreaks joined forces and could knock her out for an entire day. The therapist she saw (as recommended by the grief counselor her family used after Georgiana’s death) referred to it as a grief box. There’s a button in the box and a ball–as the years go on, the button remains the same size–but the ball shrinks. When the ball hits the button, though–it triggers the same feelings as it had done when the ball constantly pressed against the button. Thankfully, Ada thought–the heartbreak ball had shrunk down quite a bit until finding out her mother was sick and she needed to return to the Cove. “Sorry, Cal–I didn’t mean to unleash this on you. You were just a kid when it happened and now you’re, well, very much not.” She laughs, “I’m here for you too, bairn. Anything you need, you just let me know, yeah?”
Callum wants to open his mouth and protest that she’s doing just fine by herself, but it would only sound insincere with Freddie’s rather illustrious career so clearly laid out in front of them. “Yeah, alright, his face is plastered all across town,” he admits with a lighthearted eyeroll. “But man, c’mon. Anything would pale in comparison to something like that. If we're throwing a pity party, I've had to move back in with Mum. And Becca." His shoulders move in an exaggerated shudder, almost comical, as he mentions his baby sister. The gesture is a mask over his frustrations — he had headed off to the big city, only to come back with nothing but a sense of shame, crippling anxiety, and some meager internship experience. It worries him, thinking about what his future is supposed to look like, now that the one goal he'd put all his passion into failed to work out. (The worst of it gets him at night, his mind wandering off, obsessing about what-could-have-beens and agonizing over depressing possibilities.)
“It’s okay. Letting it all out helps.” He shrugs. If only he could follow his own advice. The quiet of the flower shop weighs down on his shoulders suddenly, clogging his throat with shame — which doesn't make sense, honestly, because Cal knows this isn't something to be ashamed about. Ada of all people is not going to be judgmental. Still, words will not come easy.
"Anyway," he grins, switching topics with a sigh. "Is it just me, or did the Cove get loads of new residents while I was away? Are we popular now?”
