I typed.
I’m terrified, and I hate that about myself.
Backspaced to nothing.
I texted.
I don’t trust December. It makes people say things that melt by January.
And then I deleted. Too poetic. He’d tease me forever.
I tried again,
If we do this and it implodes, I reserve the right to make Riley serve you decaf for one month.
I paused.
Then, without letting myself spiral, I added,
Thirty days. Two calls a week, we don’t cancel. One visit each way. No disappearing acts. No grand gestures. Just… us trying. If we hate it, we say so. If we don’t… we decide the next thirty. Deal?
I didn’t send it.
Not yet.
Because even deciding to try was a decision. And I wanted to feel it settle in me like something chosen, not something momentum shoved me into.
I stood, set the phone face down again, took another sip of mocha, and looked around the apartment Lydia had wrapped in lights like she was daring me to stop pretending I wasn’t sentimental. The garland over the window. The tiny tree with its lopsided star. The throw blanket I swore I didn’t like and have used every single night.
I thought of Drew’s new tattoo, the compass inked into his skin with the letter and numbers. Of his hand on the bar last night, steadying me without touching. Of him at my door this morning, freezing and nervous and trying to be respectful of my wreckage.
“I don’t know the future,” I told the room. “But I know today.”
Today I could say yes to something small and honest. Today, I could be a woman who lets herself want without punishingherself for it. Today I could pick risk that looked like care, not chaos.
I picked up the phone and read my message one more time, heart hammering, and I hit send.
It whooshed into the ether like a dare.
Immediately, my fight-or-flight instinct suggested both running to Seattle and hiding under the bed.
Instead, I chose a third option: shower. Hot water, loud music, practical action. I cranked the faucet, let steam ghost the mirror, and scrubbed my hair like clarity lived in shampoo.
When I emerged, towel-wrapped and pink-cheeked, my phone blinked on the counter.
I saw a new text from Drew.
Deal.
Followed by three dots, but I typed back,
I need to pack.
His reply,
I’ll let you pack. I’m… really glad, Mel. I’ll call tonight at seven.
I pressed the phone to my chest again, closed my eyes, and let the glad settle. It didn’t erase fear. It sat beside it. They cancoexist, it turns out. Fear and glad. Risk and return. Flannel and spreadsheets.
