twenty #2
We lingered over lunch longer than we meant to, all of us picking at the last cold fries and trading stories about old club regulars, exes, and everything in between.
By the time we finally stood to leave, the sun was slanting low through the windows, casting warm gold over the tables. Tati hugged me tight before she slipped into Seth's car.
"Text us when you get home, okay?" she said, squeezing my shoulders.
"I will," I promised.
Sam walked with me to the corner. "Are you working tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I said, tucking my hair behind my ear.
"Good," she said, her smile soft. "I'll see you then. Love you."
"Love you too."
We hugged, and she disappeared into the late afternoon crowd, leaving me alone on the sidewalk.
For a second, I just stood there, breathing in the city-car exhaust and hot pavement and the faint sweetness from the bakery next door.
It felt grounding. Like a reminder that no matter what my life looked like lately, this part of me was still here.
The walk back was quiet, my feet tracing the same cracked stretches of sidewalk I'd memorized years ago.
I passed the corner store with the faded lottery signs in the window, the row of stoops where someone's uncle was always holding court, the little mural of sunflowers someone had painted on the side of a laundromat.
When I climbed the narrow stairs to my apartment, the air inside was stuffy and too still, like it had been holding its breath waiting for me to come back.
I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door, slipped off my shoes, and padded into the kitchen.
Everything was exactly where I'd left it.
My half-finished coffee mug on the counter. My shoes kicked under the table.
The folded blanket on the back of the couch.
It should have felt comforting-coming home to my own space, my own quiet.
Instead, the silence pressed down on me in a way I didn't know how to name.
I set my phone facedown on the table and turned on the TV just for the noise, the local news flickering across the screen. I'd never watch this much of the news in my life.
I stood there for a while, not sure what to do with myself.
Then I spotted the thick folder on the coffee table-the one Evelyn had handed me after the walkthrough.
I pulled it into my lap and flipped it open.
The first few pages were glossy photos of the space-high ceilings, battered wood floors, a bank of tall windows that let in the afternoon light. Even in black-and-white, you could see how much work it needed.
New plumbing. Drywall. Permits I didn't even know existed.
But it was mine if I wanted it.
I smoothed my hand over the picture and turned to the next page-an itemized breakdown of costs.
Down payment. Inspections. Estimated renovation timeline.
I read every line twice. My stomach twisted in that way it always did when something felt too big to hope for.
I slipped off the couch onto the floor, my back braced against the coffee table. I pulled my laptop closer and opened my savings spreadsheet.
One by one, I cross-referenced every number. I added. Subtracted. Scanned my bank statements, the note file where I tracked what I'd set aside every week.
$38,200 saved.
If things stayed the way they were-business at the club, the tips I never touched except to funnel into that account-I could have the down payment in six months.
Six months.
That thought made my chest squeeze.
Six months, and maybe I wouldn't be standing here wondering what part of my life was real.
I leaned my head back against the couch and shut my eyes.
This could be yours.
Hours slipped by without me realizing. The numbers blurred, the edges of the paperwork softening in the warm afternoon light.
Eventually, the ache in my back pulled me out of it.
I stretched, closed my laptop, and set everything back in its folder.
When I glanced at the clock, it was almost eight.
I padded to the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it.
The spray beat down over my shoulders, washing away the day, the ache in my bones, the last little flickers of doubt I didn't have the energy to fight anymore.
By the time I emerged, wrapped in a towel, the apartment felt softer.
Less like a cage.
I pulled on a worn sleep shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. I climbed into bed, tugging the covers up to my chin.
The TV was still droning, Love Island played as background noise.
I left it on, just for the company.
I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would come fast and wash everything clean.
But just as I started to drift, my phone buzzed on the pillow beside me.
I turned my head, squinting blearily at the screen.
I exhaled and swiped Accept.
His face filled the screen. He looked exhausted-tie undone, hair falling over his forehead like he'd been dragging a hand through it all night.
"Hi," I said softly.
He let out a low breath, something almost like relief. "Hi pretty lady."
"You look tired," I murmured.
He shifted the phone, propping it against something so I could see more of him. He was in a hotel room-cream walls, an impersonal print framed over the bed. He sank onto the mattress with a quiet groan, one arm flung over his eyes.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
"Long day?" I finally asked.
"You have no idea." His voice was hoarse. "I think I shook a hundred hands. Gave the same speech five different ways."
I laughed, just a little, and he dropped his arm so I could see the tired curve of his mouth.
"You look good," I told him.
He made a rough sound that could have been a laugh. "I look like I haven't slept in a week."
His gaze flickered away, like he didn't trust himself to hold it. "I didn't realize how much I'd gotten used to coming home to you."
The words landed somewhere I wasn't ready for.
"I think he misses me Chat," I joked, trying to lighten it.
"I do." His mouth curved tiredly. "I won't even deny it."
"You ate?" he asked, quieter.
"Yeah the girls and I went to this sushi place called Soy."
"Are you alone?" I continue.
He nodded. "Monte left an hour ago. I think he felt bad watching me deteriorate in real time."
I smiled into the pillow. "Poor Monte."
"Poor Monte," he echoed, dry.
He shifted on the bed, the camera tilting a little as he settled back against the headboard. His fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt.
"I'm glad you answered," he said quietly.
"I almost didn't I was really close to falling asleep."
"You look pretty," he murmured.
I huffed a small laugh. "No, I don't."
"You do," he insisted. "Even tired."
He rubbed a hand over his face, blinking slowly. "I should let you sleep."
"You should," I agreed. But neither of us moved to end the call.
"Will you be at the house when I get back?" he asked, voice low.
I hesitated, picking at the edge of the pillowcase. "If you want me to be."
"I do," he said, no hesitation at all.
I drew in a shaky breath. "Okay."
"Okay," he echoed, softer.
He didn't say goodnight. He didn't have to.
For a long moment, he just watched me, his tired eyes holding something I didn't dare name.
"Go to sleep," he whispered finally.
"You too."
His mouth curved, almost a smile. "Trying."
I watched as he set the phone down beside him, the angle tilting so I could see the line of his shoulder, the way his hand rested over his chest.
I didn't end the call.
Neither did he.
And for a little while, it almost felt like neither of us had to.