Chapter Nineteen #2
I locked the phone and pressed it to my sternum for a second. Haunted in a I’m trying way. Could we please not, universe.
The apartment clock clicked toward ten. If I were going to pack, I had to actually pack. If I was going to say no, I had to actually say no. If I were going to say yes… I had to choose it fully, knowing it might hurt in the end.
I walked to the window again, letting the cold awaken me. The town was gorgeous in that precise, humble way Reckless River excels at—no polish, just care. No sirens blaring nonstop, no people yelling on a sidewalk.
My career was not a villain. Seattle wasn’t the enemy. I worked hard for my life—the apartment with the loud electric heater and the view of a sliver of skyline, the job that trusted me with children long enough to matter, the routines that made me feel competent.
My independence was a muscle I was proud of.
But being responsible didn’t kiss me back in a way that made me forget my name.
I opened the cabinet for a glass and saw the sticky note again, shouting in my own handwriting: Do not sleep with Drew.
I left it there. A boundary. A promise to myself that this choice, if I made it, wouldn’t be about shortcuts and chemistry and using heat to avoid honesty. If we did this, it had to be steady. It had to be choices and a little boring logistics that add up to care.
My phone buzzed again. Not Lydia. Not Seattle.
It was from Drew.
No expectations. If today is a no, it’s a no. I won’t push. I just don’t want to pretend I don’t want to try.
I sank into the armchair like my bones needed the help.
Want to try. Not want to win me, keep me, fix me. Try. Small word. Enormous relief.
I typed.
I’m terrified, and I hate that about myself.
Backspaced to nothing.
I texted.
I don’t trust December. It makes people say things that melt by January.
And then I deleted. Too poetic. He’d tease me forever.
I tried again,
If we do this and it implodes, I reserve the right to make Riley serve you decaf for one month.
I paused.
Then, without letting myself spiral, I added,
Thirty days. Two calls a week, we don’t cancel. One visit each way. No disappearing acts. No grand gestures. Just… us trying. If we hate it, we say so. If we don’t… we decide the next thirty. Deal?
I didn’t send it.
Not yet.
Because even deciding to try was a decision. And I wanted to feel it settle in me like something chosen, not something momentum shoved me into.
I stood, set the phone face down again, took another sip of mocha, and looked around the apartment Lydia had wrapped in lights like she was daring me to stop pretending I wasn’t sentimental.
The garland over the window. The tiny tree with its lopsided star.
The throw blanket I swore I didn’t like and have used every single night.
I thought of Drew’s new tattoo, the compass inked into his skin with the letter and numbers. Of his hand on the bar last night, steadying me without touching. Of him at my door this morning, freezing and nervous and trying to be respectful of my wreckage.
“I don’t know the future,” I told the room. “But I know today.”
Today I could say yes to something small and honest. Today, I could be a woman who lets herself want without punishing herself for it. Today I could pick risk that looked like care, not chaos.
I picked up the phone and read my message one more time, heart hammering, and I hit send.
It whooshed into the ether like a dare.
Immediately, my fight-or-flight instinct suggested both running to Seattle and hiding under the bed.
Instead, I chose a third option: shower. Hot water, loud music, practical action. I cranked the faucet, let steam ghost the mirror, and scrubbed my hair like clarity lived in shampoo.
When I emerged, towel-wrapped and pink-cheeked, my phone blinked on the counter.
I saw a new text from Drew.
Deal.
Followed by three dots, but I typed back,
I need to pack.
His reply,
I’ll let you pack. I’m… really glad, Mel. I’ll call tonight at seven.
I pressed the phone to my chest again, closed my eyes, and let the glad settle. It didn’t erase fear. It sat beside it. They can coexist, it turns out. Fear and glad. Risk and return. Flannel and spreadsheets.
The sticky note still shouted from the cabinet: Do not sleep with Drew
I saluted it. The rule stood. Not because I didn’t want him —God, I did —but because the wanting is not the problem. The staying was the work.
I pulled the suitcase toward me and, this time, it didn’t fight. I folded sweaters, rolled jeans, tucked socks into boots like tiny contraband. I packed my life and left room for something new.
Outside, Reckless River went on being its infuriating, enchanting self. Inside, I set an alarm for 7 p.m., opened my calendar, and typed Call One Thirty-Day Pilot with a little heart emoji I will deny using if anyone asks.
And for the first time since the squirrel incident, since the chili cookoff, since the kiss that rearranged me, I felt like the ground under my feet was not a trap or a test.
It was a path.
One I could walk. One day at a time. One call at a time. One small, steady yes.