The lie almost worked.
I stretched out on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, laptop propped against my knees. A new email blinked on the screen.
Students made sense. Classrooms screamed order.
Still, my gaze kept flicking to the corner of the screen where the time glowed. 6:58. Two minutes before our scheduled call.
Our pilot. Our experiment.
I’d put it on my calendar like any other meeting.
And it was my turn to show I wouldn’t ghost Drew. I’d actually pick up the call.
I reached for the snow globe again, shaking it once more, half-hoping the flakes would settle into some kind of sign.
Outside, rain slid down the window in lines that caught the light and shimmered, almost like falling snow if you didn’t look too closely. The horns and sirens dulled to background music, a city’s heartbeat trying to be festive.
For a moment, I let myself imagine that both worlds could coexist: this city with its noise and pace, that town with its quiet and warmth. That perhaps the problem wasn’t choosing one or the other, but learning how to carry both without breaking either.
At 7:00 on the dot, my phone buzzed.
I hesitated, one heartbeat, two, and answered.
His voice filled the room, low and rough around the edges, carrying laughter like a promise. “Hey, Mel.”
And just like that, the city noise faded to nothing.
Because Reckless River had followed me home.
“Hey, Mel,” Drew said, his voice warm and rough on the other end of the line. It hit me like the first sip of something strong after a long day—comforting, dangerous, and definitely not on the approved emotional diet.
“Hey, yourself,” I said, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I swirled the last of my wine. “You sound… awake. That’s weird for you.”
He chuckled, low and lazy. “You make it sound like I nap behind the bar.”
“I’veseenyou nap behind the bar.”
“That was one time. And technically, it was a strategic rest between crises.”
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He laughed outright, the sound filling my apartment like warmth. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Yours too.”
He didn’t answer right away, and for a second I thought the connection had dropped.
“I missed that.”
I froze, halfway through a sip that I suddenly didn’t want to finish. “Missed what?”
“The way you argue,” he said softly. “The way you look for a fight just to have the last word.”
I smiled even though my throat was tight. “You make it sound like I’m picking fights for sport.”
“You are.”
“I’m a teacher. Student conflict is literally my cardio.”
