The line crackles faintly. I imagine her blinking, surprised. “You’re inviting me,” she says slowly.
“Yes.”
“To Seattle.”
“Yes.”
She’s quiet long enough that I start rehearsing how to make this smaller, safer, easier to decline. Then she finally says, “Okay.”
Relief hits me so fast I have to grip the armrest. “Okay?” I repeat.
“Okay,” she says again, and there’s something warmer there now. “I think… I think I’d like that.”
I close my eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I really would.”
We drift back to the book, to buildings and layers and the grace of adaptation, but the call feels different;Ifeel different. Maybe I can fumble through just fine.
CHAPTER 31
The Choice
Robyn
Mid-July in Seattlesmells of ocean salt and on-site roasted coffee. We’re sitting next to one another at the conference venue, elbows brushing, while the light pours in through glass and steel. I’m struck by how natural this feels. Not even natural, just… energizing.
“Hey,” Nate whispers, leaning in. “I’m really sorry about the room mix-up.”
I turn sideways, my nose brushing against a lock of hair that’s hanging off his bun.
“It’s fine.”
His mouth hangs open. “I just… It’s not a ploy. I really did book two rooms.”
“We’ve done way more than share a room. I can keep my hands to myself.” I arch my eyebrows.
His lips curve up on the left corner. “I guess we’re going to findout.”
I tilt my head, and his smile dims, then vanishes. “I’m serious, though. This isn’t a ‘one bed trap’ situation.”
“Relax, I didn’t think it was. I was there at check-in.”
He blinks, then lets out a soft laugh. “Alright, swe—Robyn.”
The pause before my name makes my stomach flip flop.
He takes a sip of his matcha latte and hums. “I was trying to be considerate.”
Sometimes, I look at the man beside me and wonder where my Nate went. This Nate’s hair is pulled back into a loose bun, and his flannel suits him more than a nondescript blazer ever did. His cheeks look leaner, his nose more pronounced, the familiar angles rearranged into someone I recognize but don’t quite know.
Did my Nate mean to make himself disappear? The answer rises before the question finishes forming. Beneath kissing Tessa back for nine seconds sat a whole iceberg of resentment built from my work, my hours, my choices. And of course everything I fail to tell him I loved about him.
This Nate doesn’t seem to be carrying that weight. His posture looks… stable. He passes for someone solid enough to land on. A month ago, hewasa solid landing for me. The problem is, I’ve learned what happens when you trust the surface, and can’t seem to forget how easy I mistook the endgame facade for a cracked reality that crumbled and left me unable to trust my gut.
I roll my shoulders once as someone taps the microphone. I’m not drawn to motivational speakers, but this has become Nate’s thing… hislanguagenow. The talk starts with an introduction, and then Dr. Valeria Ross steps onto the stage. She’s about my age, hair in an impeccable up-do, cat-eye glasses sharp enough to feel intentional, and she’s a hell of a lot wiser.
“Resilience isn’t the absence of fracture or a failure to return to baseline,” she states, pushing her glasses up her nose. “It’s what you embrace once you’ve learned to bear weight after a mistake.”
