Chapter 30 #2
I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. The sound surprises me every time it escapes.
Because for weeks after Calder, joy felt dangerous somehow.
Like allowing myself too much happiness meant betraying the grief.
Or the relationship. Or how much he mattered.
Now the happiness simply exists beside the sadness instead of replacing it.
I step briefly away from the crowd toward the quieter edge of the rooftop for air.
The harbour stretches dark and glittering beneath the city skyline.
Music drifts faintly behind me. Warm wind brushes against my skin.
And standing there with laughter still lingering physically in my chest, I realize something so small it almost feels stupid.
For the last hour, I forgot to miss Calder constantly.
Not because I stopped loving him. Because I was busy living.
The thought settles through me, enormous internally and almost invisible externally.
I still ache for him. Still think of him instinctively.
Still carry the shape of that loss everywhere.
But tonight, joy arrived faster than grief did.
And instead of feeling guilty afterward, I just feel relieved.
Like some locked part of me opened again without asking permission first.
I'm standing near the drinks table debating whether my third mocktail technically counts as self-care or poor decision-making when someone steps beside me.
"Okay," a male voice says seriously, "I need to know if figure skaters actually survive exclusively on caffeine and emotional repression or if that's just propaganda.
" I glance sideways automatically. Tall.
Dark suit without a tie. Media badge clipped near his jacket pocket.
I vaguely recognize him from earlier conversations around the event.
"You forgot untreated perfectionism," I tell him.
"Damn. Knew I missed one." I laugh before taking another sip of my drink.
The conversation unfolds easily after that, warm rather than loaded or intense.
He asks about Worlds travel. I ask how many athletes have threatened him during interviews.
"Three," he says immediately. "One was a swimmer and honestly I deserved it.
" "That confidence is concerning." "I'm choosing to believe that sounded flirtier than judgmental.
" Heat rises faintly into my cheeks before I can stop it.
The comment doesn't overwhelm me. That's what surprises me.
The awareness arrives quietly a second later.
I don't panic. Don't emotionally shut down.
Don't feel guilty for enjoying the attention.
I also don't compare him to Calder automatically.
That part surprises me most. Because for a long time after the breakup, any possibility of attraction toward another person felt almost offensive emotionally.
Like loving Calder properly meant the rest of my emotional life had to freeze permanently around the loss.
Now standing beneath warm rooftop lights while music drifts across the crowded terrace and somebody flirts gently beside me, the feeling has changed shape.
I still love Calder deeply. But heartbreak did not kill my ability to exist as a woman people notice.
Or laugh with. Or feel drawn toward. And it wasn't that Calder was the only person I could ever feel warmth toward again — he was the person I loved specifically.
Still do. That distinction matters more than I realized.
"You have the most intimidating serious face I've ever seen," the journalist informs me suddenly.
"What?" "You look like you're silently evaluating whether people deserve rights.
" I stare at him flatly. "That is an insane thing to say to somebody holding a glitter mocktail.
" "See? There it is again." I laugh before I can stop myself.
The warmth comes easier now. Around us, the rooftop glows with conversation and city lights while people drift between tables carrying drinks and half-finished stories.
The journalist leans casually against the railing beside me.
"So are you always this difficult or is tonight special?
" "I'm actually being incredibly charming right now. " "Terrifying."
I'm flirting back. The awareness stills me briefly internally. I don't want this man specifically. It doesn't suddenly mean something larger either. My emotional life did not end when Calder left it.
The journalist gets pulled away a few minutes later by another media person yelling something about deadlines and terrible editing software.
Before leaving, he points lightly toward my drink.
"For the record, I think three mocktails means you legally own this rooftop now.
" "I'll inform management immediately." He grins once before disappearing back into the crowd.
And standing there alone afterward with music humming through warm night air, I wait for guilt to arrive. It doesn't.
I still miss Calder. Still ache for him in ways nobody else reaches. But grief and attraction are not enemies trying to destroy each other. They can exist together inside the same living heart.
The city is quieter by the time I leave.
Warm air clings to my skin while I step out onto the sidewalk with heels in one hand and exhaustion settling pleasantly through my muscles.
The night had stretched longer than I expected.
Long enough that laughter still lingers physically in my chest. Long enough that I stopped checking internally whether I was okay every five minutes.
I wait near the curb for my rideshare while groups from the event slowly scatter around me into the city.
Someone hugs me goodbye. Another skater yells across the street that I still owe her coffee after Worlds travel chaos.
I smile automatically. The ease of it still feels faintly surprising, not wrong, just unfamiliar after so many months of grief sitting at the centre of everything.
My phone buzzes while I slide into the back seat of the car.
Maddie: If you abandon me at another networking event I'm telling everyone you cried during Titanic.
I laugh. Then instinctively reach to send the screenshot to Calder.
The movement happens before thought catches up.
My thumb hovers over his name. The ache arrives afterward, quiet and real.
Because God, he would have found that funny, not polite laughter either, that low rough barely-contained laugh he got when something genuinely caught him off guard.
The memory settles warmly through my chest before sadness follows behind it more gently than it used to. I lock my phone instead and lean back against the seat while city lights blur past the windows outside.
I still build emotional reactions around him instinctively.
Good moments. Funny stories. Exhaustion after long nights.
Some part of me still turns toward Calder first internally even when he's no longer there to receive it.
For a while that realization only hurt. Now it feels more tender than destructive.
Like carrying proof that someone mattered enormously instead of evidence I failed to move on correctly.
The car stops briefly at a red light near the harbour.
Music plays through the speakers while rain begins tapping lightly against the windows.
I glance down at my phone resting dark in my lap.
No messages from Calder. No missed calls.
The silence no longer shocks me the way it did at first. That part hurts too sometimes, how ordinary absence eventually becomes.
Still, the grief no longer empties the happiness out of good nights afterward. I can laugh for hours and still miss him later. I can enjoy attention and still ache when I remember his hands. I can move forward without needing to amputate the love first.
By the time I reach my apartment, exhaustion drags heavily at my limbs. I kick my heels off near the couch and move through the dark apartment turning on lamps one by one. Soft light spreads slowly through the rooms. The silence feels calm tonight. Peaceful more than lonely.
I pause while washing makeup off in the bathroom when I catch myself smiling faintly at the memory of Maddie nearly falling into the decorative rooftop fountain earlier.
Again, instinct says: tell Calder. The ache follows naturally afterward.
Still there. Still real. But no longer powerful enough to consume everything around it.
I stare at my reflection for a quiet second while water drips slowly from my fingertips into the sink.
And somewhere between the laughter tonight and the lingering ache now, I finally understand something important: moving forward was never going to mean loving Calder less.
It meant learning how to keep living while the love stayed.