28
In the kitchen, I make coffee like it’s any other morning. Two cups, because West is showered and dressed and checking his phone with the kind of focus that means he’s avoiding conversation.
“Thanks,” he says when I hand him his mug, but he doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
“No problem.”
We drink our coffee in comfortable silence, or what I’m choosing to interpret as comfortable silence. He’s quieter than usual, but that’s fine. People process things differently. Some people need to talk everything to death, and some people need space to think.
I’m definitely a space-to-think person.
“Ready?” he asks when I finish my coffee.
“Ready.”
The drive to the airport is mostly quiet, with music filling the spaces between his occasional comments about traffic or my flight time. Normal stuff. Practical stuff.
Nothing about last night or this morning or what any of it means.
Which is good, because I’m not sure I know what it means either.
We had a moment. Several moments. It was nice, but it doesn’t have to be anything more than that. We’re adults. We can handle a weekend of chemistry without turning it into some grand romantic gesture.
At least, I can.
“Text me when you land?” he says when we reach the departure drop-off.
“Of course.”
“Good.”
He gets my bag from the trunk, and we stand there for a moment in the chaos of cars and travelers, and I realize we’re both trying to figure out how to say goodbye.
Do we hug? Kiss? Shake hands?
We settle on a hug that lasts maybe three seconds longer than friendly but not long enough to be significant.
“Thanks for this week. It was the best,” I say against his shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“See you in a month.”
“Yeah. See you.”
I walk into the terminal without looking back, because looking back feels too much like something a person would do if this mattered more than it should.
The flight is smooth and uneventful, which gives me time to catch up on emails and respond to client inquiries I’ve been putting off. There’s a message from another fashion brand asking if I’m available for ongoing content creation, and I spend most of the flight crafting the perfect response.
Professional but not desperate. Interested but not available for cheap.
By the time we land at LAX, I’ve negotiated a three-month contract that will cover my rent and then some.
I text West while I’m waiting for my Uber: Landed safe. Thanks again for everything.
He responds immediately with a red heart emoji.
Just a heart emoji. Simple. Sweet. Not loaded with meaning or expectation.
Perfect.
Back in my apartment, everything looks exactly the same as when I left, which is both comforting and weird.
Like I expected my week in Seattle to have changed something fundamental about my space, but it’s still just the same small studio with the same secondhand furniture and the same stack of unpaid bills on my desk.
The only difference is that now I can actually pay some of those bills.
I unpack quickly and settle at my desk with my laptop to formalize the details of my new freelance contract.
It’s good work. Interesting work. The kind of writing I actually want to be doing, for a company whose values align with mine. And the pay is steady enough that I won’t have to stress about rent for the next few months.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel financially stable.
Independent.
Like I don’t need anyone else to take care of me.
Around nine PM, I’m reviewing the contract details when I realize I should probably tell West about the job. Not because he needs to know about my career, but because it affects our arrangement.
I pick up my phone and call him.
“Hey,” he answers on the second ring. “How’s LA treating you?”
“Good. Really good, actually. I landed a big freelance contract today.”
“That’s great. What kind of work?”
“Content creation for a fashion brand. Three months guaranteed, with potential for extension.”
“Liv, that’s amazing. I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks. And actually, that’s why I’m calling. I want you to stop paying me.”
There’s a pause. “What?”
“For the fake girlfriend thing. I don’t need the money anymore. I’ve got steady work now, and it feels weird taking payment for... whatever it is we’re doing.”
“You don’t want me to pay you,” he repeats like he’s confused.
“Right.”
“For the next wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Are you... are you still coming to the next wedding?”
“Of course. I said I would.”
“But not for money.”
I shake my head. “Not for money.”
“So, if not for the money, then why come?”
The question catches me off guard, because I didn’t think about this as a two-way transaction. Why am I still going to the wedding? What’s in it for me now that I don’t need the financial incentive?
“Because I said I would. We planned it. I want to still come,” I say finally. “Tessa will be there. It’s going to be fun.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Let’s think of it like this. You paid me for the first two weddings, let’s say those payments also cover the third wedding, okay?”
“Or you could take the money.”
“No,” I say stubbornly, even though five-hundred dollars would be great right now. “No. I’m not accepting any more money from you, okay.”
“If that’s what you want.”
I nod. “It is.”
“Okay. No more payments.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, and I can feel the conversation wanting to go somewhere deeper, but I’m not ready for that.
I’m not ready to analyze what it means that I want to see him again without financial motivation. I’m not ready to examine why the thought of not going to the wedding feels wrong.
I’m definitely not ready to think about what happened this weekend and whether it was a one-time thing or the beginning of something else.
“I should let you go,” I say. “Early day tomorrow.”
“Yeah, me too. Training starts back up this week.”
“Right. Hockey season.”
“Pre-season, but yeah.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll talk to you soon?”
“Yeah. Soon.”
“Okay. Goodnight, West.”
“Goodnight, Liv.”
I hang up and set my phone aside, feeling oddly accomplished.
I’ve got steady work. I’ve taken control of my financial situation. I’ve set a boundary that makes me feel more like an equal participant in whatever this thing is with West.
It feels like growth.
Like I’m finally becoming the kind of person who doesn’t need to be rescued or taken care of.
The kind of person who can make choices based on what she wants instead of what she needs.
And right now, what I want is to see where this thing with West goes when it’s not complicated by money and power dynamics and the weird employer-employee undertone that’s been bothering me since day one.
I want to find out what we are when we’re just us.