What happens when your bar needs you, and my kids’ parents schedule a 6pm call, and we both pretend it’s fine?
I deleted it, too.
And I tried again.
Okay. Thirty days. But if you cancel a call because of a peppermint martini emergency, I will drive up so fast…
I stared at that one, smiled despite myself, and didn’t hit send.
Because fear isn’t rational. It just is. And mine was pacing my ribs like a tiger: if you try and it fails, you will have to feel it.
My brain, desperate for structure, sought refuge in familiarity. I opened my laptop again and clicked into a spreadsheet I’d been tuning for days. Lines, columns, comfort.
I built a new one and called it Pilot because I am nothing if not on-brand and made a tiny, ridiculous tracker:
Call #1: Date / Time / Notes
Visit #1: Mileage / Drive / Contingencies
Obstacles: Hours, Weather, Peppermint Martinis
Mitigation Strategies: Boundaries, Calendars, Lydia
The act of building it calmed me. I am not ashamed. Give me a worksheet and I will wrestle a dragon into a cell.
Another buzz this time from Lydia.
Are you alive or did you drown in hot cocoa? Also do you want pancakes? Also I stole your scarf last night. Sorry.
I thumbed back a quick message.
Alive. Coffee. Pancakes later. Keep the scarf; it looks better on you.Her typing bubbles popped up immediately.Callum says Drew looks haunted in an I’m trying way. Make of that what you will. XO
I locked the phone and pressed it to my sternum for a second. Haunted in a I’m trying way. Could we please not, universe.
The apartment clock clicked toward ten. If I were going to pack, I had to actually pack. If I was going to say no, I had to actually say no. If I were going to say yes… I had to choose it fully, knowing it might hurt in the end.
I walked to the window again, letting the cold awaken me. The town was gorgeous in that precise, humble way Reckless River excels at—no polish, just care. No sirens blaring nonstop, no people yelling on a sidewalk.
My career was not a villain. Seattle wasn’t the enemy. I worked hard for my life—the apartment with the loud electric heater and the view of a sliver of skyline, the job that trusted me with children long enough to matter, the routines that made me feel competent.
My independence was a muscle I was proud of.
But being responsible didn’t kiss me back in a way that made me forget my name.
I opened the cabinet for a glass and saw the sticky note again, shouting in my own handwriting: Do not sleep with Drew.
I left it there. A boundary. A promise to myself that this choice, if I made it, wouldn’t be about shortcuts and chemistry and using heat to avoid honesty. If we did this, it had to besteady. It had to be choices and a little boring logistics that add up to care.
My phone buzzed again. Not Lydia. Not Seattle.
It was from Drew.
No expectations. If today is a no, it’s a no. I won’t push. I just don’t want to pretend I don’t want to try.
I sank into the armchair like my bones needed the help.
Want to try. Not want to win me, keep me, fix me. Try. Small word. Enormous relief.
