Gage #2
A dinner that will feel like old times to everyone else, and like a live performance of please act normal to me.
I exhale and lean back in my chair.
The part of me that handles crisis wants to do what it always does:
Make a plan.
Solve the problem.
Control the outcome.
But I can’t control this.
Because the “problem” is not the weather or the dinner or the surprise.
It’s the space between me and Reece.
The space that changed after the kiss.
The space that feels like it’s widening every hour we don’t talk.
I replay the moment I pulled back—gentle, careful, respectful.
At the time, it felt like the right choice.
This morning, it feels like the start of a wall.
Did she misread it as regret?
Did I misread her panic as rejection?
Did we both do what we always do—step back first so we can claim we didn’t fall?
My chest tightens.
I rub my face with both hands and try to refocus on work.
Because work is a place where I know what to do.
Numbers behave.
People respond.
Problems have solutions.
Emotions do not.
I open my inbox again. There are emails waiting. Contracts. Updates. Questions.
I answer them with calm efficiency while my brain keeps snapping back to the same thought:
Tomorrow.
My eyes flick to the window again, toward the shared fence line between my house and Reece’s.
The fence is half buried in snow, the top edge barely visible like a boundary the weather tried to erase.
That fence line has always been a symbol of something simple.
We are next door.
We are close.
We are familiar.
Now it feels like an enemy.
Because it’s the line Reece crossed to come to me during the storm.
And it’s the line she went back over afterward.
And now… I don’t know if she’ll cross it again.
My phone buzzes.
I look down.
Reece.
My stomach flips.
I pick it up too fast, as if speed could change the content.
Her message appears on the screen:
Reece: Hey—tomorrow I’m going to work from Long Island.
Reece: Two clients can’t make it into the city yet, but they’re local.
Reece: I’ll meet them out here and handle things from home between.
Professional. Practical. Reasonable.
Also: distant.
No commute together.
No office hallway.
No chance of accidental softness.
No chance of looking at each other too long.
She’s creating space that looks like work.
It feels like avoidance.
I stare at the text for a moment longer than necessary.
Then I type:
Me: Got it. Thank you for letting me know.
Me: Stay safe on the roads.
It reads like a boss.
Not like a man who wants to ask if she’s okay.
Not like a man who is drowning in what-if.
Reece replies quickly.
Reece: Will do.
Reece: I’ll send notes after the meetings.
Efficient. Controlled.
Then—nothing.
The thread ends there like a door closing.
I set the phone down and stare at my desk.
The kiss.
Her retreat.
Her “practical” distance.
The timing.
Tomorrow at three.
Dinner.
Parents.
Her parents.
My mother’s excitement.
And Reece now removing herself from the city like she’s building an invisible wall the size of Long Island.
I connect the dots even though I don’t want to.
Reece is doing what Reece does when she feels too much.
She controls.
She categorizes.
She steps back and pretends it’s logical.
My chest tightens.
Part of me wants to march next door right now and say:
We need to talk.
But I don’t.
Because I’m her boss.
Because that power imbalance is real whether we want it or not.
Because the last thing I want is for her to feel pressured.
To feel cornered.
To feel like she has to manage my feelings on top of her own.
So I do what I always do when I don’t know how to fix something without risking breaking it:
I choose steady.
I pull back.
I give space.
Even if it hurts.
I stand up and walk out of my office, because sitting still makes my thoughts louder.
I move through the house, checking things I don’t need to check.
Doors locked.
Thermostat.
Kitchen clean.
A man with no reason to be busy making himself busy anyway.
I pause at the side window and look out at Reece’s house.
Her curtains are drawn.
Everything looks normal.
But I’ve known her too long.
Normal is her best disguise.
My phone buzzes again—work this time. An operations question. Then another. Then a calendar update.
I spend the next hour being a CEO because it’s the easiest version of myself to inhabit.
At some point, I find myself in the hallway near the front door, holding my coat, staring at the shared line between our houses through the glass like it’s a chessboard.
I could go over.
I could knock.
I could ask if she’s okay.
I could say: I didn’t pull back because I regretted it. I pulled back because I was afraid of crossing a line.
But then what?
What if she says she didn’t mean it?
What if she says it was a mistake?
What if she says she’s trying to move on?
What if I open the door and she looks at me with that careful politeness and I realize she’s already shutting this down?
I swallow.
Silence might cost me her anyway.
That thought lands with a dull weight.
Because I can be steady forever and still lose her if she decides the risk is too high.
If she decides the safest thing is distance.
If she decides I’m not allowed to want her.
I turn away from the window and force myself to do something practical.
Dinner planning.
Because my mother will arrive tomorrow with groceries and optimism, and if I don’t prepare, she will reorganize my kitchen in a way that will haunt me.
I open the pantry.
I stare at the shelves.
I have food. I have enough.
But my mother will judge my spice organization, and I will never hear the end of it.
I grab a pad and start writing things down—milk, eggs, bread—then stop because I don’t actually need to go shopping, and the real reason I’m writing this list is because my brain feels like it needs something it can control.
I tear off the page anyway and set it on the counter like it matters.
Then I go back to the window.
Of course I do.
Because the truth is, my house feels wrong when she’s not in it.
Not because I need someone here.
Because I need her.
And now the street is quiet again, power humming, snow settled, and I can’t stop thinking about what tomorrow looks like.
My mother will walk into my kitchen.
My father will comment on the driveway.
Reece’s parents will show up next door, and my mother will probably run outside and ambush Reece before her coat is even off.
Then there will be dinner.
There will be laughter.
There will be childhood stories.
There will be the kind of knowing looks parents give when they’ve seen the truth for years.
And Reece might show up—polite, careful, controlled.
Or she might not.
And if she doesn’t… everyone will notice.
Because in everyone else’s mind, Reece belongs.
Family.
The word echoes again.
My chest tightens.
I sit on the edge of the couch and stare at my phone.
I could text her. Something safe. Something neutral. Something that doesn’t feel like pressure.
My parents are coming tomorrow. That’s information she should know—her parents are too, but she might already know that from them.
But if she doesn’t… she will find out tomorrow and get blindsided, and I don’t want that for her.
And if she does know… then I’m just confirming it.
Either way, it’s reasonable.
So I type:
Me: My mom called. They’re coming up tomorrow—flight got moved to Wednesday.
Me: They’ll be at the house around three.
I stare at it.
This is safe. This is informational. This is not emotional.
I hit send.
Then I sit there like I just launched something into orbit.
A few seconds pass.
Then a few more.
The bubbles appear.
Reece is typing.
My pulse spikes like an idiot.
Her reply comes in:
Reece: Oh wow.
Reece: Tomorrow?
Reece: Your mom is going to be thrilled.
I type back:
Me: She’s already planning dessert.
Reece replies:
Reece: Of course she is.
Reece: Thanks for the heads-up.
Simple. Polite. Warm enough to not be cold.
I stare at it.
I type:
Me: Anytime.
Then I stop myself from typing what I actually want to say:
Are you okay?
Did I scare you?
Do you regret it?
Do you want me to pretend it didn’t happen?
Because I can’t.
I don’t send any of that.
I put my phone down.
Because I don’t want to scare her even more than I think I did.
Because even if she’s building a wall, I refuse to become the reason she feels trapped.
I stand and walk back to the window one more time.
The fence line is still there, half buried, silent.
The streetlights flicker on as the winter afternoon darkens.
Tomorrow is coming fast.
Parents arriving at three.
Dinner looming.
Reece working from Long Island—creating distance that is “work-related” but feels like something else.
And somewhere between now and tomorrow night, there is a conversation we need to have.
A conversation that isn’t about the storm.
It’s about what happens when two people finally feel the thing they’ve been avoiding for years.
I swallow.
Because the truth is I don’t know when to talk to her.
Not without making her feel pressured.
Not without making her feel watched.
Not without risking that she’ll say, We shouldn’t.
And I can’t pretend I wouldn’t break a little if she did.
I stand there long enough that my reflection blends with the dark window—my shape layered over the snowy street and the quiet line between our houses.
My phone buzzes once more.
Work.
I ignore it for a second, eyes still on the fence line.
Because the only question that matters is the one I can’t solve with planning:
Was that kiss a beginning… or a mistake she’s already trying to erase?