“Like I just said some life-changing shit. I’m trying to eat.”
I look away, but I’m smiling, and I don’t want to hide it.
The week that follows is the kind of dangerous that sneaks up on you.
It starts small. Billie comes by after work to shower because her hot water heater is acting up, and I tell her she can use mine anytime. Somehow, anytime becomes every day. She leaves a toothbrush in the bathroom. Then a hair tie on the nightstand. Then, a hoodie on the back of the couch I definitely don’t hold up to my face when she’s not here.I would never.
We cook together most nights. She’s a disaster in the kitchen—chaotic, impatient, constantly tasting things before they’re done and walking away from whatever she’s making while usingwaymore heat than necessary—and I love every second of it.
She talks while she cooks, jumping between topics so fast I get whiplash. Half the time, she forgets she was making a point and moves on to something new. I’ve started keeping a mental list of the abandoned sentences so I can circle back to them later. The look on her face when I do—surprised, then soft, then quickly covered with sarcasm—is becoming my favorite thing.
She fixes the squeaky hinge on my back door on Tuesday without mentioning it. I only notice because the sound that’s been driving me crazy for three weeks is suddenly gone. When I ask her about it, she shrugs and says, “It was bothering me,” like that’s a normal thing to do for someone you’re casually sleeping with.
On Wednesday, she falls asleep on my couch mid-sentence. One second, she’s telling me about a permit issue with a client’s deck, and the next, she’s out. Not a graceful drift into sleep—she just stops talking, and when I look over, her mouth is slightlyopen, and her hand is still gesturing at nothing, frozen in midair before it slowly drops to her lap.
I pull the blanket off the back of the couch and cover her. She mumbles something that sounds liketell that ass-wipe it’s not load-bearing, and I sit there like an idiot, looking at this woman who is asleep on my couch, dreaming about structural engineering, and the thought arrives without warning.
I’m in love with her.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no swelling music, no moment of revelation. It’s the quietest, most certain thing I’ve ever felt. And it should terrify me. Why doesn’t it?
This was supposed to be casual. This was supposed to be a summer thing—the girl and the cottage and surfing and the small-town life I was trying on like a coat I hadn’t committed to buying. I was supposed to be able to take it off. I was supposed to be able to go back to Toronto, back to my life, back to the version of myself that existed before I met a woman who eats dinner on the floor and leaves granola bars in medicine cabinets and knew exactly how to stand next to me while I fell apart.
I sit perfectly still next to her and watch her sleep, which sounds creepy but isn’t. Or maybe it is. I don’t care. She’s here, and she’s peaceful. For the first time in months, the thought of Toronto doesn’t make me anxious—it makes me sad. Not because of what I’d be going back to, but because of what I’d be leaving.
She shifts, pulling the blanket tighter, and murmurs, “Stop staring at me, Peter.”
“You’re asleep.”
“I’m resting my eyes. There’s a difference.” She doesn’t open them. “Also, your couch is better than my bed. I’m mad about it.”
“You could stay.”
The words leave my mouth before I can think about them. The beat of silence that follows is long enough for me to regreteverything. But then she smiles—eyes still closed—and says, “Obviously, I’m staying. I already took my bra off.”
I laugh quietly, dropping my head back against the couch. This is a problem. This is a significant, life-altering problem I have no solution for, and I’m smiling about it like it’s the best news I’ve ever received.
In the end, she doesn’t stay; she tells me she caught her second wind.
I watch her leave, wishing she’d let me in enough to let me wake up next to her one more time.
CHAPTER 35
I WORKSHOPPED IT ON THE DRIVE OVER.
DARCY
The email comes on Friday morning.
I see the subject line, and my stomach drops:Re: Q3 Strategy Review - Your attendance required.
It’s Martin. My boss. Well, technically still my boss, since I never formally resigned. I took an extended leave that we both knew was me running away but were too polite to call it that. He needs me in Toronto next Wednesday for a meeting with a client I used to manage, but I have to be there Tuesday to prep, and then on Thursday to discuss my future at the company.
Just a few days, he writes.We’ll get you in and out. It would mean a lot to the team.
I read it three times, each time hoping it’ll say something different.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, though I don’t type anything. Instead, I set my phone on the counter and go about my morning, pretending I didn’t see it. I make coffee. I check the grill. I stand on the back deck and look at the water and try to remember what my apartment in Toronto looks like. The fact I can’t quite picture it is… troubling.
