10. The Call Back
I wake just before noon, wrapped in the kind of warmth that feels like it’s coming from inside you—leftover adrenaline burned off in sleep. My mouth is dry, my eyes sting, and my limbs feel cast from lead. I roll to one side, squint at the light pooling through the blinds, and decide not to move.
The apartment is silent, save for the low hum of the ceiling fan above. The receipt is still on the coffee table where I left it, Kevin’s number folded neatly inside, untouched.
I drift for another hour, half-asleep, not dreaming, just suspended.
Eventually, I get up. Not because I want to, but because I need to.
The laundry basket is overflowing. I sort without thought, toss a load in, and wipe down the counters.
I empty the trash, scrub the coffee pot, and rinse a mug I left too long in the sink.
This movement is the closest thing I’ve had to prayer in months—like a ritual.
If I keep cleaning, maybe I’ll make enough space in the room to think clearly and make a decision.
By mid-afternoon, I’m standing at the kitchen sink when I hear a knock at the door. Then Naomi’s voice, muffled but unmistakable: “You alive in there?”
Grabbing a dish towel, I wipe my hands and open the door.
She’s dressed for the heat—a sleeveless top, loose denim shorts, and a paper bag from Pete’s tucked under her arm.
Her eyes scan me. “You look… vertical. ”
“Don’t be fooled,” I say. “I’m still mostly dead inside. Come in.”
She smirks. “Good. You could use some dying. Been a minute since you slowed down.” She holds up the bag. “Chicken salad sandwich, extra pickles.”
I take the bag. “Thanks.”
Naomi scans the room. “You resting or hiding?”
“Both,” I answer, inspecting the bag’s contents and pulling the sandwich out. I can’t remember the last time I ate. It was likely yesterday morning, yet I didn’t feel hungry until now.
Naomi studies me again. No judgment, just that quiet calibration she does, figuring out how much truth I can carry without collapsing.
“You’re allowed,” she says. “Sometimes, the only way out is through your laundry pile.”
I chuckle before realizing I’m only wearing boxer shorts in front of her. My thoughts have been elsewhere since getting out of bed.
“Nice day out,” she says, nodding toward the window. “You wanna get dressed and walk in the park?”
“Mind if we take that walk tomorrow?” I answer, my mouth full of the bite of the sandwich I’ve just taken. “I’m kinda catching up on chores and want to finish.”
“Yeah, sure,” she says. “That sounds good. Plan on lunch so we can talk.”
On her way out, Naomi taps the doorframe twice with her knuckles. “Don’t overthink everything. Just rest today. It’s okay to do nothing.”
I nod, and she heads off down the stairs, humming a tune under her breath .
I finish the sandwich standing at the counter, then pull on a fresh T-shirt.
I think about going out again. Maybe Burkhart’s.
Maybe The Anvil. Maybe somewhere new. I stand at the open closet door, staring at my shirts.
What version of me do I want to send out there tonight?
Which Daniel would they see? But nothing fits right in my mind.
The idea of it makes my chest feel tight.
I peel the T-shirt off and toss it aside. I’m not doing that again. Not tonight.
Instead, I sink into the couch, unfolding the soft blanket and tucking my feet under it.
I flip through the channels. I’m not looking for anything particular; I’m just trying to fill the quiet.
I look for something old, warm, and familiar.
I tell myself it’s just background noise—a place to rest my eyes and disappear into something that isn’t asking anything from me.
I land on The Way We Were just as it starts.
I almost keep going, but something about the opening, Barbra Streisand’s voice, sharp and certain, pulls me in.
It’s the kind of movie I’d pretend not to care about if someone else were in the room.
But tonight, alone, I let it play. The grainy film stock, soft lighting, and ache that seem baked into every line are all too familiar.
Two people who want each other but can’t make it work.
Love that never really leaves, even after it’s already gone.
I don’t cry—I lie there, curled up on the couch, watching the flicker of a story I already know the ending to.
I feel it settle over me like recognition.
The blanket feels somehow inadequate, as if it is missing weight.
I shift on the couch and adjust the pillow, but the feeling doesn’t go away.
It’s not the movie that gets me—it’s the space beside me.
The space I keep pretending doesn’t matter.
The space that stays empty no matter how many nights I fill with other bodies .
The folded receipt is still on the coffee table, a square of possibility I’ve been avoiding for two days. I stare at it, and the ache sharpens—not just for anyone, but for him.
Kevin.
Not the boy I left behind. Not the memory I’ve been feeding on.
The man I saw two days ago—kind and real—was still able to look me in the eye.
I don’t move. I don’t speak it aloud. I lie there, letting the truth sink in.
I know exactly who I see beside me. I want him.
I want to know if there’s still something between us. I want to try.
And for the first time, I don’t push that truth away.
I reach over to grab it, hold it, and let it live.
~
Naomi’s knock comes just after ten—two short raps, then a pause. I’m already up, dressed, and halfway through making the bed. The apartment feels different this morning—the same furnishings and fan spinning overhead, but the silence isn’t so loud. I open the door.
Naomi is in sunglasses and a tank top. Her hair is up, and she has an iced coffee in hand. She doesn’t say hello; she eyes me head to toe and nods.
“Well damn,” she says. “You’re upright, dressed, and not brooding in the dark. That sandwich worked miracles.”
I smirk. “Don’t underestimate the power of pickles and sleep.”
She narrows her eyes, like she’s about to say something profound, but lets it go. Instead, she brushes past me and heads down the stairs. I fall into step like I always do .
The heat’s not unbearable yet, just warm enough to make the air feel heavy in your lungs. We cut through a few shaded streets, then hit the trail loop in the park. There’s quiet between us, but it’s not awkward. Naomi never makes silence feel like a test.
Halfway through the loop, we veer toward Pete’s at The Park. We find a table on the patio under the awning, with slatted metal chairs and peeling green paint. The fan above us clicks as it spins. Naomi orders eggs, bacon, and grits, and I go for eggs benedict again. It’s starting to become a theme.
“You look better today,” she says, stirring her coffee. “Still kind of ghostly, but less… haunted Victorian widow.”
“Progress,” I say, picking at a piece of her bacon on her plate that has broken off.
She doesn’t smile at that. She watches me for a second longer than usual. Then: “So you slept it all off?”
“I did.”
“Dreams?”
I shake my head. “Just rest.”
Naomi leans back in her chair and lets the silence settle again. Her eyes drift to the edge of the patio, where a dog is tied to a bike rack, sitting quietly, watching everything with focus.
“Ever notice how dogs never try to hide how they feel?” she asks.
I glance at her, confused.
“You’ve got that look,” she adds. “Like you’re sitting still, but something inside you keeps tugging at the leash.”
I don’t say anything right away. Just take another bite of my eggs and chew slowly .
“You don’t have to tell me,” she says, softer this time. “But whatever it is, you don’t look so,” she pauses, “frantic anymore. Just like you’re waiting for something.”
There’s a window where I could tell her about running into Kevin. About the number. About the bar, the bathhouse, the movie that wrecked me. But I don’t. Not because I’m hiding it, but because I’m not ready to hear myself say it out loud.
I could never tell her about the bathhouse. I don’t regret it, but I’m not proud either. And the thing with Kevin—deciding I want to call him—is that it’s too new. Too fragile.
Naomi knows me too well. She’d see right through it, slap a name on something I’m only beginning to face.
I nod. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you will,” she says. “Just promise you won’t lie to yourself.”
We finish our food without rushing. The breeze lifts occasionally, bringing the smell of cut grass and charcoal. Someone down the hill is tossing a Frisbee. A kid shrieks as it sails past him.
On the walk home, Naomi lightly bumps her shoulder against mine. “You ever think about getting a dog?”
“I can’t even keep a plant alive.”
“Fair,” she says, grinning.
She pauses on the second step of our building’s front stairs and turns to look at me. “You do seem different today. Steadier.”
I shrug. “Sleep and time heal all.”
Naomi holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods like she’s known all along .
“I’ve got manuscript edits to ignore and dishes not to do,” she says.
“Thanks for today.”
Naomi taps the center of my chest with two fingers but doesn’t say anything. She merely nods like she sees something I don’t.
The receipt is still where I left it. But it doesn’t feel like a weight now—it feels like a door I’m finally ready to knock on.