I shouldn’t text her. What would I even say?Thanks for understanding my emotional damage. Want to grab coffee and discuss our mutual inability to feel normal human emotions?
Yeah. Hard pass.
I finish the dishes, pour myself a whiskey, and sit at the piano for the first time in months.
My fingers remember the keys, even if my brain’s forgotten the point. I play without thinking—muscle memory, background noise for an empty house.
Except—
There’s a light on in the guest house.
I can see her through the window—laptop open, hair still up with that pencil. Working. Always working.
Like me—hiding behind tasks and deadlines because it’s easier than admitting we’re terrified of everything else.
I stare at the light across the lawn, at my life with its carefully maintained boundaries and color-coded loneliness.
Screw it.
I grab my phone, find her contact, and type and delete six different messages.
Finally, I land on one.
ME:The strawberries survived. Barely.
I send it before I can think too hard.
Three dots appear immediately.
POPPY:It was touch and go there for a minute.
ME:They were plotting against me.
POPPY:Paranoid much?
ME:Prepared.
POPPY:Right. Very different things.
POPPY:Should I be concerned you’re texting me at 11 p.m.?
Fair point.
ME:I couldn’t sleep.
POPPY:Same. Vendors don’t believe in time zones.
ME:Neither do senior partners.
POPPY:Fun career choices we’ve made.
ME:“Fun” is generous.
POPPY:Would you do something else? If you could?
I stare at the question, picturing a life where I played piano for more than background noise, where I cooked for someonebesides myself, where Saturday mornings meant something other than billable hours.
ME:Maybe. You?
