The question guts me clean, pressing a bruise I’ve been trying hard not to touch. But hell, I can’t fault him. Especially when he’s been so supportive.
Me: Not yet.
Mont: Sorry to hear that. I know you’re lying low. We should catch up before the end of this week. I’ll text you the details.
I stare at the text a little too long, thumb hovering like maybe I’ll say,Sure, sounds good. Pretend I’m ready to see people, make small talk, nod through conversations that have nothing to do with the woman I fell hard for this summer.
Instead, I pocket the phone and glance around the apartment. Nothing’s out of place. At least on the surface. Neutral furniture, clean lines, art I don’t remember choosing. It looks lived in but not by me. A showroom version of stability.
A half-empty glass of wine sits on the counter from last night. I pour what’s left down the sink, rinse the glass, set it back in the cupboard. Because apparently this is what I do now. Rinse, repeat.
Shadow stretches along the arm of the couch, blinking up at me with that patient look she used to save for Cami. Of the two, she’s been the softer one, more attuned, like she’s watching thedoor for someone who isn’t coming back. Stripe hops onto the windowsill, tail flicking at the skyline. I envy his kind of peace. It doesn’t hinge on unanswered messages or the ache that starts somewhere behind the ribs and won’t let go.
The city thrums outside, all noise and movement. Life, supposedly.
Meanwhile, I’m mentally stuck in a seaside town one hundred miles away, pining for a girl who doesn’t even have my real number.
Two days slither by, and I’m back to chasing silence the only way I know how—the treadmill humming beneath me, steady and merciless. Thirty minutes of sweat and motion, of pretending progress is as simple as miles logged and calories burned.
After a quick shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and step into the dimly lit bedroom. The city outside glows through the glass, a scatter of white and amber. Steam trails behind me, and of course, my mind drifts back to nights when showers were our foreplay.
A reedy sound brings me back to now. Ringing coming from the kitchen. Not my real phone. That one’s on the nightstand. This ringing sounds sharper, more mechanical. I follow it around the corner, my pulse already doing that thing I can’t control anymore.
The bubble phone sits on the counter, plugged in, shaking against granite like it’s come back to life.
My heart thuds.
For a second, I just stare. Then flip it open.
Unknown Callerflashes in sickly black letters across the small screen.
I press the green button.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice fills the static, bright, maybe mid-thirties, too damn chipper for this hour. “Hi there, I’m calling from American Airlines Lost and Found. A passenger found a silver flip phone in the seat back pocket during a flight and turned it in to a flight attendant a couple of days ago. The phone was dead, but my dad—who, bless him, never throws anything out—had a charger that worked.”
She laughs, an awkward giggle people give when they’re not sure if they’re crossing a line.
“Anyway,” she continues, “the plane had been through three cities, so there’s no way to know whose seat it was originally. Long story short, yours is the only contact, the only one called and texted. So I figured it was worth a shot. Sorry if that’s weird. I read some of the texts and thought it’d be safe to call and tell you we have this phone.”
The line stays quiet long enough for my pulse to roar in my ears.
“I can send it to you,” she adds, “or you can pick it up? Whichever’s easier.”
My mouth goes dry. I open it once, close it again. It takes a few seconds before I remember how to speak again.
“What airport are you calling from?” I manage.
“JFK,” she says. “Our lost and found is in Terminal Eight.”
I swallow hard. “No, this is, uh, this is great. Thank you for calling.”
“Want me to hold it for you?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I grip the phone a little tighter. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”
I give her my name, end our call, then set the phone back on the counter, chest heaving like I’ve run straight into a wall of realization.
