32
West leaves early in the morning while I’m still half-asleep.
I hear him moving around the apartment quietly, trying not to wake me, and I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady because I’m not ready for goodbyes.
Not ready to watch him walk out of my life again.
The shower runs for ten minutes. I hear him getting dressed, the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet zip of his suitcase. Then he’s standing by the bed, and I can feel him looking at me.
“Liv?” he whispers.
I don’t answer, even though I’m awake. Even though I want to.
“I’ll call you later,” he says softly, and then I feel his lips brush against my forehead. I think he knows that I’m faking it.
The front door closes with a quiet click, and I’m alone.
I don’t cry.
I’m not sure why I expected to cry, but I don’t. I just lie there in my bed that still smells like him, staring at the ceiling and feeling off.
Like something important just walked out and I’m not sure when, or if, it’s coming back.
I spend the morning puttering around my apartment, watering plants and doing laundry and all the normal weekend things that should feel familiar and comforting.
Instead, everything feels slightly wrong. The space feels too quiet, too empty. Like it was made for more than just me and now I’m rattling around in it alone.
Which is ridiculous, because this is my apartment. I’ve lived here for two years. I’ve been perfectly happy here by myself.
But now I keep looking at the shower and remembering the way he looked when he came out with that towel around his waist. I keep glancing at the bed and seeing him there, content and sleepy and completely at peace.
I keep expecting him to emerge from the bathroom or call my name from the kitchen.
By noon, I can’t stand it anymore, so I drive to Tessa’s house.
“You’re here,” she says by way of greeting when she opens the door.
“I am.”
“Did we plan for you to babysit?” she asks, confused.
“No, but where are the kids?” I ask.
“Napping. Which means we have a moment to talk about whatever’s making you look so depressed. Let’s whisper. How was it with West?”
I whisper, “It was good.”
“Did my brother behave himself?” she whispers.
“Everyone had fun. Your brother was great with the kids.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And how was last night?”
“Last night?”
“When he didn’t come back here. When his rental car wasn’t in my driveway this morning. When he left for the airport from your place instead of mine.”
She hands me a glass of wine, so I take a sip and try to figure out how much to tell her.
“He stayed over,” I whisper, nodding.
“I figured that much. How was it?”
“How was what?”
“Liv. I’m not asking for details. I’m asking how you’re feeling about whatever’s happening between you two.”
“I don’t know how I’m feeling.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I really don’t,” I groan, feeling sick to my stomach that West and I live in different states.
“Try.”
I stare into my wine glass and try to put words to the feeling that’s been sitting in my chest all morning.
“It’s more,” I say finally.
She waits for me to continue.
“It’s so much more, Tessa. We’re getting serious very fast, and it’s…”
“It’s good!” she interrupts. “You’re falling for each other. That’s what’s supposed to happen when two people spend time together and realize they’re compatible.”
I stare at the wine swirling in my glass and whisper, “We might not be compatible.”
She leans in and says, “You took my children to Disneyland and came back with all their limbs intact and smiles on their faces. You’re compatible.”
“That’s not the same thing as being compatible as a couple.”
“You’re right. This is better.”
“No. Being good with kids together doesn’t mean we’d be good in a relationship together.”
“What would make you good in a relationship together?”
“I don’t know. Shared values. Similar life goals. Being able to communicate. Actually liking each other when we’re not performing for other people.”
She reacts fast, “And do you like each other when you’re not performing?”
I think about last night. The way he looked at my apartment like it was exactly what he’d been hoping to see. The way we moved around each other in the small space without bumping into each other. The way it felt natural to have him there.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I think we do.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that he lives in Seattle, and I live here. The problem is that we barely know each other outside of this fake dating context. The problem is that I have no idea if he actually wants a relationship or if he’s just caught up in the novelty of it all.”
“Have you asked him?”
“Asked him?” I almost say in a normal tone.
“Have you asked him what he wants. Where he sees this going. Whether he’s serious about you.”
“No.” I shake my head, staring at my wine again.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m terrified of the answer.”
“What if the answer is that he’s as crazy about you as you are about him?”
I think about it. About the next wedding in Napa in two and a half weeks. About having one more chance to see how we work together, how we feel about each other when we’re not in the bubble of his sister’s house and her kids or in a fake dating payment ordeal.
“Napa,” I say. “I’ll figure it out in Napa.”
“That’s like three weeks away.” She blinks, trying to do math. “Maybe a little less.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy waiting that long. It’s already driving me nuts.”
“Maybe. But it’ll be easier to have that conversation then. When we’re together. When I can see his face and figure out if he means what he’s saying.”
She takes a moment to think and then says, “You know you’re allowed to want this, right? You’re allowed to hope it works out.”
“You think?” I ask, scared to actually want this and to figure it out. I know sacrifices will need to be made, and I’m not ready for it.
“Yes. You’re allowed to be happy. You’re allowed to take chances on people who might actually be worth the risk.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, drinking wine and listening to the sounds of her kids stirring from their naps upstairs.
“For what it’s worth,” Tessa says finally, “I think he’s worth the risk.”
“I bet you do,” I joke.
“Yeah. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
“You don’t have to say that,” I say.
“I’m serious. He looks at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be lucky enough to have.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
She shrugs. “I want what’s best for my brother. And for you.”
Charlie’s voice drifts down from upstairs, calling for her mom, and Tessa stands up.
“Think about it,” she says. “Don’t wait for the perfect moment to tell him how you feel. Perfect moments don’t exist. There are only moments, and you choose whether to make them count.”
She heads upstairs to get the kids, and I sit in her kitchen, staring out the window and thinking about moments.
About the moment yesterday when West looked at my apartment like it was exactly what he’d been hoping to see.
About the moment when he said I felt like home to him.
About the moment this morning when he kissed my forehead goodbye, and I pretended to be asleep instead of telling him goodbye because it was too hard.
Maybe Tessa’s right. Maybe perfect moments don’t exist.
But maybe that doesn’t matter.
Maybe what matters is being brave enough to take the moments you have and make them count.
Even if you’re not sure how the story ends.