“Low blow.”
“High standard,” she said. “Also, tell your brother. If this is steady, let the people who love you hold you to your own word.”
I groaned. “He’ll never let me live it down.”
“He’s about to be a dad. He doesn’t have time to roast you properly. Use the window of opportunity.”
We both laughed, and some knot between my ribs loosened enough for breath to sit easier. I finished my coffee and pushed the mug back, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm.
“What if she says no?” I asked, because fear doesn’t evaporate just because logic showed up with a thermos.
“Then you give her another peppermint mocha and a hug at the edge of town,” Riley said. “You grieve like a grown-up, you don’t torch the bridge, and you keep your heart open. The world is full of seasons. If this isn’t yours together right now, it doesn’t mean it never was or never will be.”
“You practiced that?”
“Only in the mirror for fifteen years.”
I stood, slid a bill across the counter. She pushed it back with a look that said not today. I folded it into the tip jar anyway, because pride’s a dumb hill to die on and also because her muffins keep half the town civil.
At the door, she called after me. “Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“Be specific,” she said. “Don’t wander up there tonight with big eyes and bigger feelings. Give her a roadmap. The brave kind.”
“Copy that.”
“And wear a better jacket,” she added, wrinkling her nose. “You look like a guy who just got off Mt. Everest.”
I laughed and saluted her with two fingers. The bell gave me its little jingle blessing as I stepped back into the cold.
Main Street had shifted a shade brighter while I was inside.
The plows had left tidy berms, and I cut across toward the Stag, boots squeaking on packed snow, and pulled my phone out halfway there.
A blank message thread stared up, ours, two blue bubbles, three days apart, full of jokes that had kept us from saying anything real.
I typed:Can I see you later? Not to ask you to stay. To ask for thirty days.
I stared at it until the words blurred. But I deleted the second sentence and paused.
Riley’s voice chimed in my head.Be specific.
I typed again:Can I see you later? I want to ask you for 30 days: two calls a week that we don’t cancel, one visit eachdirection. No disappearing acts. If it’s terrible, we stop. If it’s good, we figure out the next 30. No hard sell. Just the truth.
I didn’t hit send.
Not yet.
The bar door loomed.
Duty.
Comfort.
Distraction.
Family.
