Chapter Twenty
Drew
I stared at the text like it might sprout antlers and start singing Jingle Bells.
Thirty days. Two calls a week. One visit each way. No disappearing acts. No grand gestures. Just… trying.
I locked my phone. Unlocked it. The words didn’t move. Stubborn as a snowdrift.
Riley had to have slipped something extra into Melanie’s coffee—something beyond caffeine.
Honesty syrup. Courage dust. A holiday blend labeled Sanity.
Because this agreeing to an actual plan was not how my Decembers usually went.
December, historically, was for sleigh bells and mistakes.
A kiss, a flinch, a graceful retreat. Not a calendar invite with emotional accountability.
Around me, The Rusty Stag hummed with post-festival exhaustion. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed too loud. The smell of cider and fried onions clung to the air like the town’s collective hangover. Reckless River had finally exhaled.
I slid my phone face down under the register like contraband and grabbed the order pad, pretending my hands didn’t shake. Inside, everything was misfiled…hope where panic should be, relief labeled regret.
That was when Callum came out from the back, carrying a box of bar napkins like a man auditioning for sainthood. He set it down, wiped his hands on his jeans, and gave me that big-brother look that says I can smell your crisis from three counties away.
“You look like an overcooked turkey,” he said. “Want me to call a doctor, a priest, or Riley?”
I stacked clean glasses because when in doubt, polish. Ritual beats panic nine times out of ten.
He leaned on the bar, one eyebrow raised. “You eat today?”
“I drink coffee,” I said. “That’s basically food.”
“Sure. If you’re twenty-one and immortal.” He tilted his head toward the window. “You watch her drive out?”
My throat tightened. “Saw her car.”
“And?”
“And what?” I snapped. “She left. Seattle’s still there. Geography hasn’t failed us.”
He hummed. “Translation. You feel like someone hit you with a snow shovel.”
“Colorful, but fine.”
He reached over, eased a glass out of my death grip, and studied me. “You’re going to tell me why your face looks like a sad Christmas cookie, or am I supposed to guess?”
“No,” I said.
“Cool, cool.” He straightened, still watching me like he was trying to read fine print. “Lydia says you look awful, too.”
“Tell Lydia she’s glowing. It’s rude to compare.”
“You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clammy.”
“I’m not clam—” I stopped, because the floor tilted slightly in protest. I sat before he could gloat.
He poured me a glass of water and slid it across. “There. Hydration. Revolutionary concept.”
“Feels insulting,” I muttered, but drank it.
“You want my advice?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good. Here it is anyway. Seattle’s not Mars. Cars exist. Roads exist.”
I blinked. “Not chasing her.”
“Didn’t say chase. Said go.”
“I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“The bar.” I gestured around the room like it was a valid excuse instead of a half-empty Wednesday.
He looked at the five customers, the elderly couple sharing a pretzel, a tourist nursing spiked cocoa like penance, and Riley’s empty stool near the door. “Yeah, real madhouse.”
“It’ll get busy.”
“Sure, champ.” His grin was infuriating. “You ever notice that the more you like someone, the more you sound like an excuse factory?”
“Point?”
“Point is, you’re scared.”
“I’m responsible.”
“Since when?”
I rolled my eyes.
“You’re terrified,” he continued. “And Lydia’s betting me a dozen cookies that you’ll admit it before closing.”
Right on cue, Lydia waddled in from the back, balancing two steaming mugs like some benevolent, pregnant elf.
“Uncle Brood,” she said cheerfully. “You look like your favorite reindeer got run over.”
“That’s dark, even for you,” I said.
“Drink this.” She slid a mug my way. “It’s ginger tea. It won’t kill you.”
“Tea doesn’t belong in a bar,” I muttered, taking a sip anyway.
“It does when your emotional liver needs a detox.” She perched beside Callum, hands on her belly like she was queen of the intervention. “So, you heard from Melanie?”
I sighed. “She texted.”
Lydia clapped once. “She said yes, didn’t she?”
I frowned. “You knew?”
“She felt like the kind of woman who’d say yes.” Lydia smirked.
“It’s a bad idea,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” she countered. “It’s called trying. You two are allergic to simple happiness.”
I scrubbed my hands over my face. “Do you guys hold a family meeting before tag-teaming me like this?”
“Yes,” they said together.
“Great.”
Lydia’s voice softened. “You can’t sit here brooding for thirty days and call that effort. Trying means showing up, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s far.”
“I have a business,” I said automatically.
“We have a business,” Callum corrected. “And guess what? We’ll manage.”
“Tips. Deliveries. Inventory—”
“Done,” he said.
“The fryer—”
“The cook knows how to relight it.”
I glared. “You two rehearsed this, didn’t you?”
“This morning,” Lydia said brightly. “While you were staring into the espresso machine like it held answers.”
I groaned. “You’re both monsters.”
“Loving, well-meaning monsters,” she corrected. “So here’s your deal. Option A: You call her tonight, do your thirty days from here, and stew over every missed chance. Option B: You drive to Seattle for a few days and let her show you her life. No chasing, no proving, just trying.”
The words sat heavy between us. I looked at the door, the same one she’d walked out of, and felt my chest tighten.
“I can’t,” I said quietly.
“Because?” Callum asked.
“Because if I go, I might want to stay.” The truth dropped like a shot glass hitting the bar. “And I can’t. This place…it’s who I am. And Seattle’s who she is.”
Lydia nodded slowly. “Then go see her world. Let her see yours. Maybe you’ll both find something that fits between.”
I laughed, dry. “I can’t believe I’m taking relationship advice from my brother. You got hives the last time you flirted.”
“I did not,” Callum protested. “It was bad shellfish.”
“Sure,” Lydia said. “Shellfish named Tina with the pretty eyes.”
He pointed at her, smiling. “The name was Lydia.”
They bickered like always, and somehow it loosened the tightness in my chest. I looked down at my phone again. The text sat there, steady, simple, waiting.
The bar’s door chimed, letting in a gust of cold and a couple of festival stragglers. I slipped back into motion—poured drinks, cracked jokes, did my job. It was the one thing I knew how to do when my life was shifting: serve people, make them laugh, and pretend I wasn’t terrified.
Lydia smiled like she’d just won a secret bet. “You’ll feel better once you stop hiding behind this bar.”
“Hey,” I said. “This bar’s my armor.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting my hand. “Time to step out of it.”
They left soon after, the bell over the door jingling them into the dusk.
I stood there for a long time, the place quiet but warm. Then I picked up my phone. The message box blinked, waiting.
7 is on my calendar. No disappearing acts. Promise.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. Then:
Don’t be late, Benedict. I’ve got spies up there.
I smiled one of those real, chest-deep smiles I hadn’t had in too long.
“She said narc,” I told the empty bar, and laughed out loud.
I laughed again, shaking my head.
The clock ticked to 6:55. I poured myself a coffee, slipped into the office, and stared at my reflection in the window.
At 7:00 exactly, I hit call.
It rang once. Twice.
“Hey,” she said, and my heartbeat calmed for the first time all day.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m on time.”
“Functional,” she teased.
“Don’t spread that rumor,” I said. “It’ll ruin my brand.”
She laughed softly. “Hi, Drew.”
And with that, the noise in my chest finally went quiet.