A Girl Named Callie

<Jasper> A Boy Who Still Thinks of Her

Chapter 2

<Jasper Coven>

"Hey, you've reached Callie Stevens. I can't get to the phone right now, so please leave a message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." I hang up at the beep without leaving a message. I throw my phone angrily at the pile of clean clothes in the corner of my room. Running a frustrated hand down the side of my face, I collapse on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I haven't heard her voice in years. I meant to keep up; call her every day, video chat on the weekends, but things got busy for both of us. She went off to college and I went into the studio to record my first album and after that, it became harder and harder to stay in touch.

I sit up on my elbows and look around my bedroom; the walls, the bedspread, the dresser and side tables are all dressed in various shades of gray and black, a reminder of a past I still haven't left behind. The cityscape outside my window is still lit up, despite it being almost 10 o'clock at night. Even after four years, I haven't gotten used to the fact that the city never seems to go to sleep. Back in Everington, the town itself seemed to go to sleep with the people. No store lights or even houselights were on past 11 unless it was football season. Now, in Los Angeles, it's hard to find a time when the lights are off. Somedays, it feels like I'm trapped in a never-ending cycle, like maybe if the lights went off, I'd be able to just rest.

I stand up from my bed and walk over to the window, letting the shade down, so I can pretend that the city is just as dark as my room. My Converse-clad feet carry me to the black marble of my bathroom where I slip out of my recording clothes, a pair of jeans and a shredded t-shirt. I drop them in the hamper and grab my black sweatpants from the rack by the shower. They hang low on my hips, revealing the newest addition to my ever-expanding collection of tattoos: a phoenix that stretches from my left hip up the side of my torso to my ribs. I take a bottle of Aquaphor out of the cabinet and massage it over the entirety of the tattoo, the skin still tender to my touch. Once my tattoo is sufficiently covered, I put the lotion back and run some water in the sink.

The cold water stings my face as I splash it over my sunken cheekbones. I grapple for the towel on the hook next to my sink and stand up straight as I wipe away the cold water that's dripping onto my chest. A pair of ice cold blue eyes meet me in the mirror, messy black fringe mixing with my thick lashes. I push the chemically altered hair off of my forehead and examine the dark circles under my eyes. Nearly five years of sleepless nights, of touring, of recording, all manifesting themselves in the shades of purple under my eyes. They remind me of the bruises that used to stain my arms, the gifts from a father long-since gone and buried.

I shake the thought from my head and step out of the bathroom, my bare feet padding across the smooth hardwood floors. I pick up my phone from the pile of clothes and check my lock screen, hoping Callie took a chance and called me back. A picture of the pair of us from her one trip to California stares back at me. Her arms are wrapped around my waist and she's wearing a pair of Minnie Mouse ears, a souvenir from the day's trip to Disneyland. The picture is obscured by the banner of a notification, so I toss my phone back into the pile of clothes on the chair. With a heaving sigh, I pick up my guitar, the same one I've been using since Charlie gave it to me in middle school. I run my fingers over the frets, searching for the guitar pick I'd left there after my all-day studio session. The familiar plastic falls into my hand as I walk over to my bed and sit down. With the guitar resting on my knee, I press the shuffle on the music app on my phone, the song blasting out of the speakers I had wired into my penthouse. Damn, I sound so rich saying that...

Being rich was a new feeling for me. Back in Everington, I had never been poor, but with my dad's habit and the farm to support, money always seemed to be tight, especially once I started stashing some money for my mom and I to escape. Now I'm using words like 'penthouse' and have the luxury to hook-up my multi-million-dollar house with quality speakers. The penthouse was the first thing I'd bought after my record was released; it got me out of having to live in hotel rooms and made me feel like I was here to stay in the city of stars. I'd invited my mom to come live with me, telling her about the three bedrooms, the monstrous kitchen and every other amenity I could think that would convince her. She turned me down, choosing instead to live in Everington where, at least for me, every square inch held reminders of my late father. When Callie came out to visit me a few months after I moved here, I gave her the same offer, telling her that there was a room in the penthouse with her name on it as soon as she finished college. In her typical kindness, she thanked me for the offer and told me she'd have to think about it. After nearly four years, I think I'm safe in taking that as a 'no'.