Chapter Nineteen
Melanie
The moment the door clicked shut behind Drew, I just… stood there. Bare legs, plaid nightshirt, peppermint steam curling into the December air like a tiny, festive middle finger to common sense.
It was, objectively, a simple gesture. A cup of coffee. People do it every day without spiraling into a full-body crisis. People accept beverages without mentally undressing the person delivering them. Normal people, anyway.
I am apparently not normal people.
Because the second his knuckles brushed mine, my treacherous brain staged a hostile takeover. Rip-off-flannel, back-to-bed, do-not-pass-go levels of takeover. I could practically see it, felt it.
His laugh against my throat, those hands at my hips, the nightshirt a casualty of war on the living room floor, all flooding my mind in a way that shouldn’t be this early in the morning.
And because God loves balance, another image flooded my mind.
Drew handed me the coffee like it was a hot potato, and he was fleeing a crime scene. The careful smile. This is totally platonic energy. The way he backed down the stairs like one wrong move would detonate us.
Which fine. Accurate.
Because I made a vow. A good one. A smart, adult vow. The kind women in control of their lives make.
I was going to stay away from him as much as possible.
And at minimum, I was not going to sleep with him.
Two goals. Seemed doable.
Current status report:
Stay away from him: failed so spectacularly that it deserved a commemorative plaque.
Not sleep with him: ongoing, but my resolve was akin to a raccoon rummaging through a trash can at midnight.
I shuffled to the kitchen and set the cup on the counter like it might explode.
The peppermint hit my nose, and I hated how much it smelled like kindness.
Like thoughtfulness. Like him knowing I’d be wrecked this morning and bringing me sugar and caffeine in a paper cup with a doodled candy cane on top.
“Absolutely not,” I told the cup. “You will not be used as evidence.”
I grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and a sticky note from the small stack Lydia left when she transformed this apartment into a Christmas cottage, and wrote:
Do not sleep with Drew in all caps. I stuck it to the front of the cabinet.
And because I know myself, I added:
Even if he smiles like that and
Even if he plays our song on the jukebox and, for good measure,
Even if he brings more coffee.
The sticky note looked ridiculous. Childish. Necessary.
I took another sip of the mocha. It was perfect. Of course it was.
“Okay,” I muttered, squaring my shoulders. “Avoidance. Packing. Movement. We’re a woman with a plan.”
I clenched my eyes. “We are not plural. I am a woman with a plan. Not we. I.”
I marched to the bed and yanked my suitcase from underneath.
The zipper caught on something…of course it did, and in under thirty seconds, the woman with a plan was a gremlin burrowing through knitwear.
Scarves exploded. Socks multiplied like rabbits.
My suitcase mouth gaped at me like it knew I was lying to myself.
The problem with packing for Seattle was that Seattle had an annoying way of reminding me it exists.
The calendar reminders on my phone were merciless: parent-teacher meetings, admin meetings, to-do lists, spreadsheets.
A life so clean and orderly it shone. I’m good at it.
Better than good. I like making other people’s chaos behave.
But right now, the only chaos I wanted to wrangle came with a smirk and a flannel. Which was not a classroom I could make behave.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my laptop onto my knees. Emails roared to life. The principal, cheerful and terrifying, had cc’d me on a “quick before year-end alignment.” The words quick and alignment do heavy lifting in education. They mean lots of meetings and worrying.
I started a reply. I did not send it. My fingers hovered over the keys like they were auditioning for indecision.
This is ridiculous, I told myself. You know how the story goes. You sleep with him. You drive back to Seattle. You come back in a week or two at break. You pretend everything’s fine while your organs dissolve into hot chocolate. It’s not fine. Why isn’t it fine?
Because I couldn’t get him out of my head. And because there would be no future.
There it was. The thesis statement. The defense exhibit.
No future.
I closed the laptop and flopped backward on the bed so dramatically the headboard thunked the wall. Somewhere outside, a truck backfired.
In here, my heart refused to mind its business.
“Why no future?” I asked the ceiling. “State your case.”
Exhibit A: I lived in a city that ate time for breakfast.
Exhibit B: He managed a bar in a town where bells still mattered, and people baked each other muffins for sport.
Exhibit C: Logistics were a thing, and so was rush-hour traffic and long drives.
Counterpoint: people do long-distance all the time.
Counter-counterpoint: I am people. And I know myself.
I groaned and rolled off the bed, pacing the three whole paces the adorable studio allowed. My sticky note glared at me from the kitchen. I glared back.
Fine. New tactic. Data. Pros/Cons list. Teachers loved a list.
I grabbed another sticky and drew a line down the middle.
Pro Drew
Makes me laugh when I want to bite.
Kisses like he means it and like he’s been memorizing me.
Loyal. He is loyal like gravity.
Smells like cedar and spice and poor decisions I keep trying to make.
Makes this town make sense.
Cons Drew
Flirts like breathing; women with peppermint martinis appear like mushrooms after rain.
Stubborn. Pot meet kettle.
Bar hours vs. teaching hours = logistical cage match.
Makes me feel things I can’t describe.
Wears flannel in ways that make vows necessary.
I stared at the columns. The pros were embarrassingly pro. The cons were not actually disqualifiers, just… complications.
Inconveniences.
Opportunities for crying in public restrooms.
The apartment felt too small for all the noise in my head. I opened the window an inch, and cold air spilled in like a blessing.
From here, I could see Main Street waking up. There was a shopkeeper shoveling snow from the stoop, a kid dragging a sled even though the sidewalks were mostly clear, and a golden retriever wearing a scarf it absolutely hated.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
I ignored it. Then didn’t. Then did.
“Coward,” I told myself, and crossed to check.
It wasn’t Lydia.
It wasn’t Seattle.
It wasn’t a discount code for an app I’d never use.
It was Drew.
My stomach did a weird elevator drop as I looked at the text.
Can I see you later? I want to ask you for 30 days: two calls a week that we don’t cancel, one visit each direction. No disappearing acts. If it’s terrible, we stop. If it’s good, we figure out the next 30. No hard sell. Just the truth.
I held the phone like it might bite.
Thirty days? Not forever. Not stay, give up your life. Not move here and become the kind of person who has opinions about snow tires.
Just…a pilot program. A trial. A manageable experiment with clearly defined deliverables and review periods. My inner Type A sat up like a meerkat.
He was offering me a way to be brave without lying to myself.
The problem was that bravery looks a lot like risk.
I set the phone face down, as if proximity might make me cave. I paced another three laps, then grabbed my cup and took a long drink that had cooled just enough to taste like holiday and temptation.
Thirty days. Two calls a week, we wouldn’t cancel. One visit each direction. No disappearing acts. I was already coming back for the holidays.
An agreement. A contract, almost. Not romantic in the grand-gesture way. Romantic in an adult way. Specific. Respectful. Acknowledging that my life is real and so is his.
I picked the phone back up, of course, and read the message again. The part that got me was at the end. No hard sell. Just the truth.
It was so…Drew. Not the swagger, not the disarming jokes.
The steady undercurrent. The man who remembered my peppermint addiction and also that I’d been up all night.
The man who spun me in a snowstorm like we hadn’t been pretending not to think about each other for months.
The man who left when I couldn’t be honest with myself or him.
I typed,
This is either the most reasonable thing anyone’s ever proposed to me or an elaborate setup for disappointment.
I deleted it and then typed.
What happens when your bar needs you, and my kids’ parents schedule a 6pm call, and we both pretend it’s fine?
I deleted it, too.
And I tried again.
Okay. Thirty days. But if you cancel a call because of a peppermint martini emergency, I will drive up so fast…
I stared at that one, smiled despite myself, and didn’t hit send.
Because fear isn’t rational. It just is. And mine was pacing my ribs like a tiger: if you try and it fails, you will have to feel it.
My brain, desperate for structure, sought refuge in familiarity. I opened my laptop again and clicked into a spreadsheet I’d been tuning for days. Lines, columns, comfort.
I built a new one and called it Pilot because I am nothing if not on-brand and made a tiny, ridiculous tracker:
Call #1: Date / Time / Notes
Visit #1: Mileage / Drive / Contingencies
Obstacles: Hours, Weather, Peppermint Martinis
Mitigation Strategies: Boundaries, Calendars, Lydia
The act of building it calmed me. I am not ashamed. Give me a worksheet and I will wrestle a dragon into a cell.
Another buzz this time from Lydia.
Are you alive or did you drown in hot cocoa? Also do you want pancakes? Also I stole your scarf last night. Sorry.
I thumbed back a quick message.
Alive. Coffee. Pancakes later. Keep the scarf; it looks better on you. Her typing bubbles popped up immediately. Callum says Drew looks haunted in an I’m trying way. Make of that what you will. XO