“Thereis when two hours later you have a stomachache and don’t know why. I tell you it’s because you’ve consumed nothing but coffee and you don’t believe me.”
I smile and head into the living room, sinking into the couch and throwing a blanket across my lap. He shifts around my apartment, putting a protein shake in the fridge for later and slipping on his shoes. It feels so normal, like this is something we do every morning.
"Alright, I’m off,” he says, lingering in the doorway for a moment like he doesn’t actually want to leave.
“Be nice to all the other kids at training,” I call after him.
He gives me a mock salute, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the quiet apartment. The blanket is warm, my coffee is perfect, and there’s breakfast in the fridge—because in the middle of his routine, Oliver thought of me.
And maybe that’s what’s making my chest flutter a little. Not the eggs, or the kiss, or even the teasing. It’s the fact that for the first time in a very long time, there’s someone I look forward to seeing every day. Someone who feels worth missing the second they’re gone.
With Matt, any time I spent alone in the apartment meant keeping my head down, watching over my shoulder in case he came home early and found me doing something he didn’t like. Even something as harmless as baking cookies or reading in bed would set him off on the wrong day.
But now, when Oliver leaves, I look forward. I miss him the second he’s gone. I spend my time counting the hours until he comes back. I peer out the windows, waiting excitedly for him instead of anxiously bracing myself.
Because I miss him.
And because I want to tell him about my day.
There’ssuch a difference between being controlled and being seen.
By noon, I’ve made two calls, answered four emails, and stared at my to-do list long enough to convince myself that simply “thinking about it” counts as work.
I reward myself by spending most of the day unapologetically binging British reality television.
Right now, it’s a marathon ofFour in a Bed, and god, I love it so much. It’s one of the most quintessentially British things I’ve seen since moving over here. It’s literally just bed-and-breakfast owners staying at each other’s places, judging every little thinglike it’s life or death.
I lean forward with anticipation as one woman runs her fingertip along the top of a wardrobe, then pulls it back like she’s discovered blood at a crime scene.
“Ohhh,” I say, to literally no one. “Dust. She’s gonna knock them for the dust.”
There’s something so wonderfully absurd about the passive-aggressive things they find to complain about. The woman right now is complaining about lousy sleep because the cows made too much noise—on a literal farm.
The tension is so thick, you could spread it on toast.
By the time the fifth episode ends, my brain feels like it's slowly turning into mush. I’ve been curled up on the sofa for hours, except for my brief venture into the kitchen to bake cinnamon rolls. One of the bed-and-breakfasts had them, and I couldn’t get it out of my head, so into the kitchen I went.
I need achange of pace. I grab my phone and decide to FaceTime my mother. Dad is away on business in Ohio, so I know she’s alone in New York right now.
“Hi!” Mom’s face fills the screen, her short brown hair down and blown out. She’s at her desk at the office, a cup of coffee in hand. “How are you, honey?”
“Good,” I say, taking a sip of my own coffee. “Working from the apartment today.”
“Getting anything done?”
“Well, I made cinnamon rolls,” I quip. “How’s work for you?”
“Funny you should ask,” she says with a sly grin. “We wanted to tell you this after your father got back from Ohio, but I’m too excited. I’m retiring in May.”
I blink, shocked. “What? No, you’re not.”
“I am,” she says, eyes sparkling. “So is your father.”
My mouth drops open. “Okay, seriously, what? Work has been your life since before I was born. Both of you.”
“I know. We’ve loved our careers. But we love each other more, Addison. It’s time.”
