Bar hours vs. teaching hours = logistical cage match.
Makes me feel things I can’t describe.
Wears flannel in ways that make vows necessary.
I stared at the columns. The pros were embarrassingly pro. The cons were not actually disqualifiers, just… complications.
Inconveniences.
Opportunities for crying in public restrooms.
The apartment felt too small for all the noise in my head. I opened the window an inch, and cold air spilled in like a blessing.
From here, I could see Main Street waking up. There was a shopkeeper shoveling snow from the stoop, a kid dragging a sled even though the sidewalks were mostly clear, and a golden retriever wearing a scarf it absolutely hated.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
I ignored it. Then didn’t. Then did.
“Coward,” I told myself, and crossed to check.
It wasn’t Lydia.
It wasn’t Seattle.
It wasn’t a discount code for an app I’d never use.
It was Drew.
My stomach did a weird elevator drop as I looked at the text.
Can I see you later? I want to ask you for 30 days: two calls a week that we don’t cancel, one visit each direction. 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 held the phone like it might bite.
Thirty days? Not forever. Notstay, give up your life. Not move here and become the kind of person who has opinions about snow tires.
Just…a pilot program. A trial. A manageable experiment with clearly defined deliverables and review periods. My inner Type A sat up like a meerkat.
He was offering me a way to be brave without lying to myself.
The problem was that bravery looks a lot like risk.
I set the phone face down, as if proximity might make me cave. I paced another three laps, then grabbed my cup and took a long drink that had cooled just enough to taste like holiday and temptation.
Thirty days. Two calls a week, we wouldn’t cancel. One visit each direction. No disappearing acts. I was already coming back for the holidays.
An agreement. A contract, almost. Not romantic in the grand-gesture way. Romantic in an adult way. Specific. Respectful. Acknowledging that my life is real and so is his.
I picked the phone back up, of course, and read the message again. The part that got me was at the end.No hard sell. Just the truth.
It was so…Drew. Not the swagger, not the disarming jokes. The steady undercurrent. The man who remembered my peppermint addiction and also that I’d been up all night. The man who spun me in a snowstorm like we hadn’t been pretending not to think about each other for months. The man who left when I couldn’t be honest with myself or him.
I typed,
This is either the most reasonable thing anyone’s ever proposed to me or an elaborate setup for disappointment.
I deleted it and then typed.
