“But he made up for it. He brought her flowers every Friday after he came home from work. He was always up for a card game—any card game. He loved jogging in the mornings and camping and fishing. He used to smoke, but he quit when my mom got pregnant with me. He said he didn’t want to continue any bad habits like that when he had a child counting on him.”

I pause and sip again, my chest tight with the memory surfacing just now—one of my favorite memories of my dad.

“At my culinary school graduation, he made this sign and held it as I walked across the stage. It said, ‘Congrats, Chef Nikki-Nack! You did it!’”

I look up to see that Callum’s smile has softened. More wistful than amused. “Nikki-Nack.”

“His nickname for me.”

“That’s adorable.”

The tightness in my throat, the burn in my eyes, it all dissipates at how intently he listens to me.

“It really was,” I say softly.

I open my mouth to speak again, but the only thing that comes out is a soft squeak. I press my mouth shut, shaking my head. It’s the best I can do since I can’t say sorry. Everything is a reminder that he’s not here and he never will be.

Callum squeezes my hand once more. “Hey. It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything. Just take your time.”

I look up to see his face twisted in concern. I nod, grateful that he seems to understand exactly how I feel, exactly what I need in this moment.

It’s another quiet minute with just the pub chatter filling the silence between us before I say anything. “I talk to him sometimes still.”

Biting my lip, I fixate on the wood grain of the tabletop, wondering if I’ve crossed the line to full-on weirdo now that I’ve admitted that out loud.

But he answers without missing a beat. “I used to do that with my gran after she passed.”

“Really?”

He nods, the expression on his face warm. It makes any semblance of doubt about myself fly right out the window.

“I was living in Chicago when she died, so I didn’t get to say good-bye to her. Whenever I was home and visited her grave in the beginning, I would have a chat with her. Tell her about my day, what was on my mind, how much I missed her.”

Hearing him share his own memories with his grandmother makes me want to pull him into the tightest hug. It shows he’s not judging me; it shows he can relate to what I’ve been through.

“There’s an urn with his ashes at the condo I share with my mom,” I say. “Whenever I’m stressed or sad, I say a few words to him.”

His mouth curves up in a gentle, understanding smile.