Lydia smiled like she’d just won a secret bet. “You’ll feel better once you stop hiding behind this bar.”
“Hey,” I said. “This bar’s my armor.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting my hand. “Time to step out of it.”
They left soon after, the bell over the door jingling them into the dusk.
I stood there for a long time, the place quiet but warm. Then I picked up my phone. The message box blinked, waiting.
7 is on my calendar. No disappearing acts. Promise.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. Then:
Don’t be late, Benedict. I’ve got spies up there.
I smiled one of those real, chest-deep smiles I hadn’t had in too long.
“She said narc,” I told the empty bar, and laughed out loud.
I laughed again, shaking my head.
The clock ticked to 6:55. I poured myself a coffee, slipped into the office, and stared at my reflection in the window.
At 7:00 exactly, I hit call.
It rang once. Twice.
“Hey,” she said, and my heartbeat calmed for the first time all day.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m on time.”
“Functional,” she teased.
“Don’t spread that rumor,” I said. “It’ll ruin my brand.”
She laughed softly. “Hi, Drew.”
And with that, the noise in my chest finally went quiet.
Chapter Twenty-One
Melanie
Seattle always sounded like it was in midargument with itself.
Even from six floors up, the city pulsed with horns shouting over each other, a siren wailing in the distance, somebody below laughing too loudly, somebody else yelling about parking. If I leaned over the little balcony rail, I could almost smell the popcorn cart that set up down the block every December.
It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t quaint. It wasn’t Reckless River.
It was home.
The glass towers across the street caught the low winter light, throwing gold against the gray like the skyline was trying to apologize for existing. Somewhere a bus sighed, brakes squealing. The sounds wove through the walls of my apartment, a city lullaby I’d memorized long before I ever drove north and found myself swallowed by pines and snow and a bartender who could undo my entire nervous system with one crooked grin.
I exhaled and turned back inside.
My place looked exactly as I’d left it—tidy, functional, boring in the comforting way hotel rooms are boring. The couch faced the TV, the chair faced my desk, the desk faced the wall. Minimal clutter. One candle. Two plants somehow still alive.
My little work nook was tucked beside the window, laptop waiting, spreadsheets sleeping. A mug of pens. A stack of student papers. My life in stickers and pencils. Order. Predictability. Things that didn’t start arguments or catch fire or smell like cedar and whiskey.
