Hello everyone :) I've never written a Cal fic before, and I really wanted to try. I also wanted to give him a softer, warmer personality than he has in the movie. Set in modern day. Please leave a review if you liked it :)
My Coke is flat.
It's only a small thing, but it's one more factor to add to my already bad day.
I remove my lips from the striped straw and push away the glass bottle, dejected. You look at me from across the table, your choppy bangs hanging in your face and your expression void of emotion. You drum your fingers on the rough surface, as if you're bored; now, your eyes are anywhere but on mine.
The noise of your long fingernails clacking against the table brings back a flood of memories: we're eighteen, fresh out of high school, as I carry you into the small kitchen of our new home and set you on the tabletop. At the time your hair was short, cropped into a bob that framed your face and made your green eyes pop. You stare at me with a toothy grin as I embrace you; our affection escalates into a heated, passionate affair, and we make love against the edge of the table, truly making this house our home.
The table bears nicks and scratches, the cause of many painful splinters and the victim of many dropped kitchen utensils. Each marking on its surface has a story, and as my eyes drink in each one I wish I knew every story so that I could tell you them.
But would you care?
You draw back your hand, placing it in your lap, and let out a long, heavy sigh. Through the kitchen's window, the sunlight streams in and illuminates your silhouette with a yellow glow, giving you the appearance of an angel. I wonder if you remember that at one point in time you were my angel, and I yours.
Water droplets have formed on the outside of my Coke bottle as the liquid inside becomes warm. Your glass of water is untouched, sweating as well as it rests on the table's corner.
We've been sitting here a long while, having accomplished nothing other than an uncomfortable silence full of words screaming to be heard but remaining unspoken.
Your voice brings me to reality, reminding me that I am awake and not living inside of a dream like I wished. "Cal, I want a divorce."
I flinch at your statement, but don't allow it to fully pierce me yet. It's a struggle for me to meet your gaze and hold it while my heart rate goes out of control inside of my body.
Your green eyes, the ones that used to sparkle every time they looked at me, are now full of what looks to be resentment. My gut fills with a sickening dread, and you curl your lip in disgust.
"Are you even going to say anything?"
There's so much that I want to say, so much that I want to ask—why him over me? What did I do?
When did you fall out of love with me?
Instead I swallow the growing lump in my throat and force myself to speak. "A…divorce, Rose?"
You flip your long, scarlet hair over one shoulder and suck in your breath before exhaling slowly. "Yes. We've been separated almost a year, and I don't think—"
"Can't we try to fix this?"
"No."
"We haven't even attempted to repair this, Rose…"
You stand up, push in the rickety old chair, and smile almost sadly at me. A belly has grown beneath the blue fabric of your thick sweater; you're carrying his child. You've tried to hide it from me by wearing clothes too large for your frame and even now by folding your hands in front of your stomach, but I'm not blind.
You've made love to him instead of me, a once powerful, sacred ritual between us that you now share with him.
The tears in my eyes are unexpected, but I don't try to fight them as they spill over onto my cheeks. I haven't cried since I was a child, but the sudden wave of emotion overwhelms me. "Rose, you're my wife. I… Love you. Don't you understand?"
Your bottom lip quivers as you open the door, sending me a sympathetic look over your shoulder before you step outside. "I'm sorry, Cal."
As the latch catches the closing door behind you, my breath catches in my throat. Your words haunt me, your voice clear as crystal in my ears—I want a divorce.
The reality of it sinks in, and a sob escapes me. You leaving has never felt so real until now. I tried to look past it as I watched you pack your clothes and favorite books away into your suitcase, convincing myself that this was just a phase and you would be back soon. But the lonely nights became more and more frequent, and soon you stopped coming back home entirely. The phone rang less and less often as the weeks dragged on, before stopping altogether. Months passed with no word from you; and now you're finally back, but not in the way I wanted.
Wiping away the salty tears with the back of my hand, I stand up and storm out of the kitchen, leaving behind the drinks and the pulled-out chair. Our tiny living room is a mess, cluttered with old newspapers, empty DVD cases, and women's magazines that you had left behind. I cross the hallway and enter our bedroom; our bed is unmade, the covers on your side still flipped back from the last time you would ever leave that mattress. Your Jurassic Park poster is still taped on the white wall beside your bookcase, though you took most of your books with you when you left.
Everything is the same as it was that February morning when you walked out of the door, your packed bag in one hand and your car keys in the other.
It's not even noon yet, but I slip off my moccasins and climb into bed, pulling a thin sheet over my body. Within minutes, I fall into an uneasy slumber, finally able to escape reality, if even just for a little while.