Designated Driver (Calum Hood)
Part Two (Read Part One)
Word Count: 3.189K
Blurb: You and your friend decide to go out to get your mind off a not-so-great week. When your planned DD falls through, her boyfriend, Calum, steps in.
Warnings: Language; Calum Hood being hot; somewhere between fluff and yearning; abandonment by best friends; allusion to sexual activities, a part three that's going to make you clutch your pearls
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You're fucking stupid. That's the first thing that comes to mind when you wake up with a migraine so horrible that getting a pick axe to the back of your skull would be a reprieve. You knew you aren't twenty-one anymore. In fact, you're closer to thirty than twenty-five, but in an act of pure idiocy, you decided that drinking would fix your problems. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You press the heel of your hands into your eyes, praying for the pressure to give you some relief. In a strange way, it does, so you lay there in your dark room and let the events of last night crash over you. Out of all people, fucking Calum got you home. That, as well as being abandoned by both of your best friends, is not something you would have expected.
Speaking of, you know you need to text Chelsea and see what the fuck happened between her and Calum. Opening your phone, however, only seems like a way for you to worsen the pounding coming from the center of your head.
You suddenly recall that Calum left a water and pain meds on the bedside table. Removing one of your hands from your face, you fumble in the dark for the feel of the bottle. When your fingers wrap around the medicine, you immediately twist open the lid and swallow three, washing it down with the stale water. You won't complain about the water too much with the way your mouth feels like you spent the whole night chewing sand and gravel.
Greasy food, you need greasy food, you decide. Taking a deep breath, you try sitting up. The blood rushing through your body temporarily worsens the migraine, but once you settle into being upright, the pressure seems to lessen. You stagger out of your room and into the hall leading into your combo living room and kitchen area. Sunlight seeps through the cracks in your blinds and into the kitchen. Thankfully, it's not strong enough to worsen your current state.
You find your phone turned face-down on the kitchen table. You don't remember leaving it there, but to be fair, most events from last night aren't entirely clear. You know Claire left with some dude, Calum answered Chelsea's phone when you called, and that you spent the evening with Calum making sure you didn't die from alcohol poisoning. You get a flash of memory of him looking over you while you drank your water in bed, and because you don't like the way even thinking about that makes you feel, you pick up your phone and call Chelsea, hoping that somehow Calum got her phone back to her.
The phone rings four times before she answers.
"Hello?" she asks, sounding annoyed. If you weren't so miserable right now, it might have pissed you off.
"You've got your phone back," you say, your voice as wretched as you feel.
"Why wouldn't I?" your best friend feigns.
You don't want to say immediately that it's because Calum played hero last night and had to pick you up because he, in fact, had Chelsea's phone. So instead, you play a little stupid along with her.
"Because you were supposed to pick up Claire and I from the bar last night," you say.
"Listen, Calum and I broke up. I didn't feel like going out. You seem like you got home okay, anyway," she says. There's no remorse, only sharpness, defensiveness. It curls around your chest in a vice-like grip. You know Chelsea, and she only acts this way when she's in the wrong about something. Usually, you end up ignoring it, looking the other way. Right now, hurt radiates through you from the fact that she had no issue just leaving you stranded if it came to that.
Only because you're curious, you ask the question you've wanted to ask since last night.
"Why did you break up?"
There's a silence over the line and for a moment, you wonder if the call dropped, but when Chelsea speaks again, you know two things: your friend, you no longer feel like you can call her your best friend, is not telling you the full story, and you don't feel guilty being attracted to Calum, anymore.
"I met someone else, okay? Sue me for being young and wanting to keep my options open." You don't have time to respond to the allusion that someone who you thought to be the most loyal person alive cheated, because Chelsea hangs up immediately after.
You stare at the phone, dumb-founded. Fighting the urge to call her back and demand an explanation, you toss your phone down on the counter and start to make yourself toast. You try not to think about Chelsea as you wait for the bread to brown, but you do.
Chelsea has always been one of those people who seemed to care deeply about others. But at times, you have questioned if that compassion was falsified for her benefit. You've always dismissed those thoughts, calling yourself critical, but after this conversation, you feel that you've always been right.
Your mind goes to Calum as you heavily butter your toast. There's some pity there for him. He's too good to be getting cheated on. You think of his eyes again, his plump lips, the way he looked over you. And suddenly, none of it makes sense. You're best friends with the girl who wronged him, why the hell would he have any desire to make sure you got home safe?
Taking a bite of the toast, you groan at the way the oils coat your mouth and tongue, already improving the acrid residue of a night out on your tongue. You bring your plate to the counter and manage a few more bites before there's a knock on your apartment door.
Fuck, Calum said he'd be by this morning.
You look down at your naked body, not bothering to put on clothes yet since pulling yourself out of bed.
"Just a minute!" you croak, realizing you can't put on a full outfit without making him stand outside for entirely too long.
You eye the blanket lying on your couch and wrap it around your body. He saw you in a towel last night; this is essentially the same. You're not entirely convinced but secure it before opening the door, the light of the apparent afternoon, not morning, blinds you.
"Come inside," you say, squinting. "Too fucking bright."
You wave Calum in and when you shut the door, you can actually open your eyes. Calum gazes over your blanket wrapped around your body and you tell yourself it's the hangover that has you imagining the way his eyes momentarily rest on your cleavage.
"Dunno how I feel about seeing you not wearing real clothes so much," Calum deadpans.
"Don't get used to it," you say. "Let me pull on some clothes; I just got up."
You walk gingerly to your room and find a Ramones shirt, tugging it over your head and tug on some cotton shorts you got on clearance at Walmart back in your early twenties.
You re-enter the room and only then do you notice Calum has a paper bag in his hand.
"What's that--"
"How're you feeling--"
You both ask your questions simultaneously and then chuckle awkwardly.
"I picked up some breakfast," Calum says. "I figured you'd be fighting for your life this morning."
You don't stop the soft smile from coming to your face. You try to remember if anyone had ever brought you food after a hangover. At the moment, you can't recall.
"You're right, I am," you say. "We can eat on the couch."
Calum doesn't move until you do, making yourself comfortable on the sofa you got from a consignment shop in east LA a couple of years back. He pulls the coffee table closer to you both as he sits. You do your best not to be hyper aware of the way his knee presses against yours.
"I went to that breakfast joint we all went to a few months back," Calum says, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil from the bag. He hands you yours and you're dumbfounded when you realize its the exact sandwich you ordered before.
"Do you remember every little detail about everyone?" you ask, biting into the bun and loving the way the egg yolk is runny when you chew the yolk.
"Sadly," Calum says, beginning his own sandwich.
You know it's probably not the best time to have this conversation, but you broach it anyway. You can always blame your impulsivity on the pounding in your head.
"I know what happened between you and Chelsea," you say.
Calum raises a brow, his forehead crinkling.
"You do, do you?"
"Well, I know she cheated," you say.
Calum's expression shifts and even though you've only spent limited time together, you know he's trying to mask his hurt.
"Did she tell you that?" he asks.
"Not entirely," you say. "But it wasn't hard to put two and two together. I've known her for years and can tell when she's hiding something."
Calum doesn't say anything to that, just stays silent and becomes suddenly infatuated with his sandwich.
"I'm sorry," you say, knowing it's not your place to apologize, but doing it anyway.
Calum laughs a quick, sardonic laugh.
"Why are you sorry?"
You don't know how to be anything but honest, right now. Watching your words is too difficult.
"You're actually a decent guy. You don't deserve that."
You've never touched Calum yourself and you know you're likely going too far, but you feel like you have to reach out. So you do, your hand goes to his knee that brushes yours. Calum's eyes land on your hand and remain there, his face stoic, but you can see that there's thoughts racing behind his eyes. His gaze goes to your face.
"Thanks," he says.
His eyes don't move from your face and you let him watch you. You let yourself notice all the features that you have tried to ignore the last eight months of knowing him. His warm eyes, the bow of his lips, the stubble that grows along his face, the way the smell of the cigarettes he smokes lingers on his skin and it doesn't repulse you. It never did.
Calum clears his throat and you break the gaze.
"I also brought your key back," he says before taking a final bite of his sandwich.
You almost completely forgot about him having it in the first place, but you take it when he places it into your palm. Your fingers briefly wrap around his and a chill runs up your spine.
Another cold shower. You need another fucking frigid shower and maybe elective sobriety for the foreseeable future.
"Thank you for helping me last night," you say, sticking the key into the pocket of your shorts.
"Don't worry about it," Calum says.
"Why did you get me anyway?" you ask, unable to not worry about it. "Chelsea seriously fucked you over and you came to get me anyway. You didn't owe her anything."
Calum's gaze rests on you momentarily, as if thinking over his next words.
"You're a decent person, too," he says finally. "I wasn't going to leave you stranded just because you put your faith in the wrong people."
Then, there's a warmth spreading through you that you know you can't blame on anything except the fact that you are attracted to Calum. And that revelation feels horrible for many a reason as it sinks into your bones. One of them being that you're technically still friends with his ex.
"Thank you," you say, your voice quiet.
Calum purses his lips and nods. He stands, collecting the trash from your breakfast, throwing the leftover napkins into the bag.
"I should be going," he says.
"Yeah," you start, standing with him. "I should--"
"Rest," he finishes for you. An actual smile turns up at the corner of his mouth. It doesn't help the way the warmth bubbles in your stomach.
"Yeah, that," you say, trying to hide your blush behind a laugh.
Calum makes his way toward the door and stops before opening it. He turns to you, his eyebrows scrunched together as if he's questioning what he's about to say to you.
"You have my number. If you need another DD, let me know."
You decide to be brave.
"What if I just want to talk to you?" you ask.
You watch pink creep into his cheeks, subtle, but you find the way it happens to be very cute on him when he comes across as such a mystery.
"That too," he says. You both smile, and you make a mental note of how good he looks when he's happy.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay," he says, and he walks out of your apartment, the door shutting behind him.
You watch after the space where he stood previously and sigh. You lock the deadbolt behind him.
***
Three weeks later and you and Calum have not hung out nor texted, despite what you both said. You've been too scared to text him. You know yourself and the subtle feelings you've had for him for the eight months before he and Chelsea broke up. Now that they are no longer together, those said feelings have only amplified. At night you find yourself going back to the night he rescued you. To the way he watched you with pride as you drank the water, the sensation of your fingers wrapped around his, even if only fleeting.
You know you couldn't trust yourself to not get in too deep if you spent any real time with him. So you stayed away, and with him not reaching out, you guess he was okay with that.
But now, you're at a table at a bar with Chelsea and Chloe both. Chelsea with a new guy, who admittedly, you don't give a fuck about. His name is John, and he's got an attitude like he was put on this Earth to make women roll their eyes. You also silently hate him out of support for Calum; he's so many levels below the quality of man that Calum is. It irritates you, but also, the person Chelsea has become since being with him has you drafting friendship-ending texts in your notes app.
You're not trying to be wishy-washy by not immediately ending it, you're just hoping Chelsea comes back to her senses.
Claire sits across from you, her arm wrapped around the arm of the guy she left you for at the bar. Luke. He's nice enough, and out of all the guys she's dated, he's your favorite thus far. Ironically enough, he is also from Australia. Horrible for you, every time he speaks, he reminds you of Calum.
Calum and the way he said your name over the phone. Calum and the tattoo on the base of his hand. Calum and the way he tried to be respectful of not staring at your body wrapped in anything but clothes. Calum, Calum, Calum.
"So how did you meet?" Claire asks Chelsea after sipping off of Luke's Heineken. This is the first time you've all actually met each other's partners, sans you, of course.
You watch Chelsea's face to see if she tells the truth. She still has not been exact with you, and every day, the rage grows a little bit more. You sip your drink, hoping she redeems herself by being honest. John watches her too. You had ascertained that he was aware she was taken when they began hooking up, but you had no legitimate proof.
"Oh, you know, we just kind of, ran into each other."
An unintended scoff leaves your mouth. You feel Chelsea's piercing eyes on you. People have always said she had pretty ones, but with the blue fixed on you, they don't look pretty. They look lethal. You try to take a big drink from your glass, hoping to cover the slip-up. Hoping to avoid the confrontation you've been fighting the last three weeks to prevent.
All four pairs of eyes land on you when Chelsea bites, "Do you have something to say, (Y/N)?"
For a split second, you contemplate lying and keeping the peace. But, what would be the point? You feel so out of place with the people here at this table. Where you want to be, you've been avoiding for weeks now, because of some false sense of loyalty to these people you once called your friends.
"Yeah, actually," you say, swallowing down the rest of your drink, knowing you're going to need courage for this. The rage and twinge of alcohol burns under your skin. Not enough for full inebriation, but enough to loose your tongue.
"Then go ahead," Chelsea challenges.
"Guys, what is--" Claire tries to intervene, but you don't give her the time.
"I would call fucking some other dude while you're still with Calum anything else but running into each other."
Claire's mouth goes agape and she looks between Chelsea and you. Luke suddenly becomes interested in his Heineken. John sits there, looking stupid and annoying as always.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Chelsea says, feigning disinterest.
At that, something inside you snaps. Chelsea was no longer the person you knew. Chelsea used and took, and when she was caught with the carnage in her hand, she denied. You and Calum both would always be too good for her. So you stand, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.
"Since you have no clue, I'm just going to go," you say, pushing in your chair.
"Wait," Chelsea says, her nonchalance dropping for a moment. "Where are you going to go? I drove you here."
By the look on her face, she thinks she has you. She knows how you'd have to wait around outside for at least an hour for an Uber or Lyft to show. But she doesn't know everything about you.
"I have a ride," you say.
You turn and leave the bar, pushing open the doors and letting the sticky humidity of the early evening wash over you. It's refreshing, freeing, even with the heat. You open your phone and dial a number you should have three weeks ago.
Calum answers on the first ring.
"(Y/N)?"
The way he says your name sends warmth flooding through you. You don't feel bad about it, anymore.
"Am I cut off from asking for a ride?" you ask, the question hanging in the air, meaning so much more to you than he could possibly know.
You hear his laugh reverberate from the other end of the line. You want to hear the way it washes over you in person. You want to feel alive in his joy. You want to make up for the three weeks you avoided the truth of what was there in-between the lingering looks you shared.
"Never," Calum says.
You don't stop the smile that pulls at your lips. You're done fighting.
