What Nobody Else Sees

chapter eight

The June sky was slowly darkening as Callie's car pulled in. Sam sighed deeply, rising from his spot on the plaid couch. He stood at the back door, peering through the window. He took a moment to gaze into the woods that stood at the end of Callie's yard. In the afternoon, with the light peeking through the green trees, the woods reminded him of his childhood. Bright, pure, wild. But now, in the darkness, they seemed menacing. Sam knew that everything bright thing had a darker side. His childhood, Key Creek, Callie... Even the woods. Especially the woods. What people didn't know wouldn't hurt them, at least, until they started looking. He hoped that Callie wouldn't go looking back there.

The door creaked open. Callie stared at him through puffy eyes, Max walking to her side. She was still in her skirt, though it was past seven o'clock. It couldn't have been comfortable. Hell, Sam was itching to get out of his well-worn tennis shoes. "Everything ok?" he asked, watching her carefully.

Callie shut the door again, locking it. Max didn't move. "Yeah, I just...I'm just a little tired," she mumbled.

Sam tilted his head. She seemed weak in the knees. "Of course you are, you haven't slept. Why don't you get some rest?"

Hugging herself, Callie looked around the house anxiously. "I'm not tired enough to sleep yet. There's probably something else I can do...Did you have dinner? I can make some-,"

"Callie," Sam interrupted. It hurt to see her like this, all frantic and disheveled. What had Peter done to her? "You should rest. Go change, we can watch a show together," he smiled at her, saying or doing anything to calm her nerves. "Like old times."

She looked like she wanted to protest, and Sam would've argued with her, but thankfully she turned and walked down the hall to her bedroom.

Sam sat down, making space for Callie to sit. He closed his eyes, lost in thought. Jackson needed him, what if this was actually a test? What if he found out about Callie somehow? Then what?

Something wet nudged his hand. Sam looked down, finding Max staring up at him with big black eyes. That old dog was still around...Though he never claimed Max as his own, he had always been fond of the loyal dog. Sam rubbed Max's head. "You been taking care of Callie, old boy?"

Max wagged his dark, fluffy tail, exposing a spot of missing fur on his leg, bright red. Sam sighed, "It came at a price, though, didn't it?"

"We take care of each other."

Sam glanced up, watching Callie as she carefully sat down on the opposite end of the couch. She had changed into grey sweatpants and a shirt that was way too big on her. He absently wondered if the shirt had once belonged to Peter. "Hand me the remote, I'll find a show," he said, trying not to read too much into her. He wanted to be fair on her.

She passed him the remote wordlessly. He paused to study her for a second. She was so much older than when he had left her. "You look...different."

She looked up at him, tilting her head to the side. "Your face is thinner," she finally said.

He scoffed, smiling. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

For a moment, she was quiet. "Just an observation," she said, nodding as though she had finally come to a silent answer. "Six years did not change you much. You're just quicker to anger, but the quiet type of anger."

He wasn't sure what she meant by that. He still had a tendency to shout, but there wasn't much room for it in Memphis. It was best for him to stay quiet there.

"Do you drink, Sam?" Callie asked, leaning down to pet Max.

"Not too much," he said, eyebrows coming together. "Just the occasional couple beer, some whiskey every now and then. Why do you ask?"

She closed her eyes, head tipped back. "I saw Peter drunk for the first time when we were seventeen. You were long gone by then, as was Donna. That should've been the moment I knew," she sighed heavily, her lips turned up in a casual smile. "But I was a stupid, reckless teenager and turned a blind eye. Who woulda guessed it, he hit me for the first time two years later."

Sam's eyes widened. "You were nineteen?"

Callie hummed in agreement. "I sent you invite, remember?"

He vaguely remembered some formal envelope with a Key Creek address. Sam had been a stupid twenty-three-year-old and threw it out with the rest of the letters. He was getting too old for those pitiful excuses. "Yeah," he muttered in shame. "It wasn't your fault. None of it. Not me leaving, not him drinking, not him beating you. No one can blame any of it on you."

She didn't answer him. He didn't push.

"C'mon, put something on," she said.

He flicked on the television, scrolling through the few channels until he found an old black and white sitcom. It was one of their mother's favorites, and Sam could probably quote the entire episode if he tried.

"This is a good one," Callie mumbled.

He hummed. It was a good one.

"What happened with Donna?" He whispered, because he thought it might kill him if he didn't know.

Callie's eyes never left the screen. "Does it matter? You left first, anyways."

Sam didn't know how to answer that, because she wasn't wrong, but it still hurt so bad.

So, he stayed quiet, and let the tension fizzle out in the air.

Halfway through, Callie had fallen asleep on the arm of the couch, and Max was dozing by her feet.

Letting out a shaky, tired breath, Sam realized that those six years would hold events he might never catch up on.