Chapter Twenty-One
Melanie
Seattle always sounded like it was in midargument with itself.
Even from six floors up, the city pulsed with horns shouting over each other, a siren wailing in the distance, somebody below laughing too loudly, somebody else yelling about parking.
If I leaned over the little balcony rail, I could almost smell the popcorn cart that set up down the block every December.
It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t quaint. It wasn’t Reckless River.
It was home.
The glass towers across the street caught the low winter light, throwing gold against the gray like the skyline was trying to apologize for existing.
Somewhere a bus sighed, brakes squealing.
The sounds wove through the walls of my apartment, a city lullaby I’d memorized long before I ever drove north and found myself swallowed by pines and snow and a bartender who could undo my entire nervous system with one crooked grin.
I exhaled and turned back inside.
My place looked exactly as I’d left it—tidy, functional, boring in the comforting way hotel rooms are boring. The couch faced the TV, the chair faced my desk, the desk faced the wall. Minimal clutter. One candle. Two plants somehow still alive.
My little work nook was tucked beside the window, laptop waiting, spreadsheets sleeping. A mug of pens. A stack of student papers. My life in stickers and pencils. Order. Predictability. Things that didn’t start arguments or catch fire or smell like cedar and whiskey.
The job was good. Better than good. Sweet students, good administrators, and…
How lucky was I?
I whispered it like an incantation. Lucky to have a career that paid well. Lucky to have this apartment, a skyline view instead of a forest one. Lucky that the biggest drama in my life was a temporary Wi-Fi outage.
Luck and peace and calm.
Those were my currencies here, but all of them evaporated the second I thought about Drew Benedict.
The image came uninvited: him in that flannel, sleeves rolled, a grin that made promises and apologies in the same breath. The way he said Hey, Mel like he was already halfway to forgiving me for every stupid wall I’d built.
I rubbed my arms, pacing. “Nope. We are not doing that.”
There’s an easy way to drown out thoughts in this city—noise with more noise. I opened the storage box from the closet labeled XMAS – SMALL APARTMENT VERSION in my own handwriting and hauled it onto the coffee table.
Inside were the pieces of a season I was determined to fake until it felt real.
First came the lights. I pulled out the thin strings of warm white bulbs that had a permanent kink halfway through because I always wrapped them wrong.
I untangled them slowly, looping them around the window frame so they glowed against the foggy glass.
Outside, the rain had eaten what little snow Seattle had managed this year.
Puddles reflected headlights like melted ornaments.
Next came the wreath. It was an artificial pine one with fake cranberries that looked too shiny to be edible and a red velvet bow that had seen better years. It wasn’t like the fresh wreath smell from Reckless River.
But whatever.
I hung it on the inside of the door because last time I’d tried putting one outside, some well-meaning neighbor thought it was theirs for the keeping.
I pulled out a ceramic reindeer with a chipped antler that I’d bought on clearance.
A garland made of felt stars, each one a slightly different shade of red.
A tiny Santa mug that held exactly half a cup of cocoa but twice as much nostalgia.
I lined them across the mantle of the electric fireplace that pretended to crackle if you squinted.
When I reached the bottom of the box, tissue paper rustled around the last decoration: a snow globe. A small one, a cheapie that I bought at one of the small stores in Reckless River.
I sat back on my heels, heart doing that thing where it forgot whether it was supposed to ache or beat. Inside the globe, a miniature bridge spanned a frozen river, and if you shook it, flecks of fake snow swirled like memory refusing to settle.
“Of course, you’re here,” I murmured, setting it on the coffee table. “You just can’t stay out of my life, can you?”
The apartment glowed softly now, and outside, rain whispered against the windows instead of snow.
Seattle didn’t do snow like Reckless River.
When flakes fell here, they turned to slush before they hit the sidewalk.
You could still see people pretending, though, umbrellas decorated with candy canes, shop windows painted with frosted outlines, a man selling paper snowflakes from a street corner.
I lit a peppermint-and-vanilla candle on the counter and let the scent fill the room. If I closed my eyes, I could almost trick myself into believing it was pine.
It was peaceful, I told myself again.
This was safety. This was sanity.
The quiet didn’t argue, but it didn’t agree either.
I moved to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine, and carried it back to the couch.
The Christmas playlist I’d queued up last year started automatically—jazz standards, slow and comforting.
Somewhere between Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and I’ll Be Home for Christmas, my chest did that tight, traitorous thing again.
Home. The word had started to feel plural.
The city had always been my constant, but Reckless River had gotten under my skin. I took a long sip of wine.
“You need hobbies,” I told myself. “Knitting. Pottery. Literally anything that doesn’t involve emotional risk.”
But my eyes kept drifting back to the snow globe. It looked ridiculous on my glass-and-chrome coffee table—too sweet, too earnest, too him.
I picked it up and shook it again. Snow spiraled, slow and hypnotic, around the tiny bridge.
When it finally settled, the reflection from my apartment lights turned the river inside to gold.
“Stop it,” I whispered, setting it back down. “He’s not magic. He’s just a man with good shoulders.”
The lie almost worked.
I stretched out on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, laptop propped against my knees. A new email blinked on the screen.
Students made sense. Classrooms screamed order.
Still, my gaze kept flicking to the corner of the screen where the time glowed. 6:58. Two minutes before our scheduled call.
Our pilot. Our experiment.
I’d put it on my calendar like any other meeting.
And it was my turn to show I wouldn’t ghost Drew. I’d actually pick up the call.
I reached for the snow globe again, shaking it once more, half-hoping the flakes would settle into some kind of sign.
Outside, rain slid down the window in lines that caught the light and shimmered, almost like falling snow if you didn’t look too closely. The horns and sirens dulled to background music, a city’s heartbeat trying to be festive.
For a moment, I let myself imagine that both worlds could coexist: this city with its noise and pace, that town with its quiet and warmth. That perhaps the problem wasn’t choosing one or the other, but learning how to carry both without breaking either.
At 7:00 on the dot, my phone buzzed.
I hesitated, one heartbeat, two, and answered.
His voice filled the room, low and rough around the edges, carrying laughter like a promise. “Hey, Mel.”
And just like that, the city noise faded to nothing.
Because Reckless River had followed me home.
“Hey, Mel,” Drew said, his voice warm and rough on the other end of the line. It hit me like the first sip of something strong after a long day—comforting, dangerous, and definitely not on the approved emotional diet.
“Hey, yourself,” I said, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I swirled the last of my wine. “You sound… awake. That’s weird for you.”
He chuckled, low and lazy. “You make it sound like I nap behind the bar.”
“I’ve seen you nap behind the bar.”
“That was one time. And technically, it was a strategic rest between crises.”
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He laughed outright, the sound filling my apartment like warmth. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Yours too.”
He didn’t answer right away, and for a second I thought the connection had dropped.
“I missed that.”
I froze, halfway through a sip that I suddenly didn’t want to finish. “Missed what?”
“The way you argue,” he said softly. “The way you look for a fight just to have the last word.”
I smiled even though my throat was tight. “You make it sound like I’m picking fights for sport.”
“You are.”
“I’m a teacher. Student conflict is literally my cardio.”
He chuckled again, but the laughter faded sooner than usual.
“Still,” he said, quieter now, “I miss it. I miss you.”
I stared at the twinkling city outside my window, at the rain streaking down the glass.
The words hung between us.
He’d said it so simply, and it shouldn’t have hit me like it did, but there it was. My heartbeat, suddenly louder than the sirens three blocks down.
“I…” I started, then stopped.
What did I even say to that? I miss you too felt like giving permission to something I couldn’t control. I know sounded cruel. Same sounded cowardly.
So I looked around my apartment instead, at the fairy lights around my window, at the snow globe from Reckless River glinting in the lamplight, at the half-drunk glass of wine and the half-written email on my laptop. Everything that was supposed to feel safe and familiar suddenly felt… smaller.
He must’ve heard the silence because his voice shifted, uncertain now.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “That was probably too much.”
“What? No, it’s not—”
“I didn’t mean to make it weird. Forget I said it.”
“Drew—”
“See? This is why long distance is a bad idea.”
“Stop.” I sat forward on the couch, clutching the phone. “You didn’t make it weird. I just… didn’t know what to say.”
“That’s usually my problem,” he muttered.
I huffed out a laugh, even though my chest was tight. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Still sounds like a compliment,” he said automatically, and that, somehow, made it worse like he was trying to steer us back into safe waters while the whole ship tilted.
“Drew,” I said, softer now. “I do miss you.”
He went quiet for a minute and finally exhaled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I glanced toward the window, where the neon from the sushi bar across the street flickered against the rain. “But I also miss not overthinking every word I say. And that’s not your fault…it’s just… this.”
“This being the thing we decided to try.”
I nodded, then realized nodding was useless on the phone. “Exactly.”
He sighed, the sound crackling faintly through the line. “You’re already bailing, aren’t you?”
“What? No!” I said quickly. “I’m not bailing, I’m…”
“Rethinking?”
“Analyzing,” I said defensively. “That’s different.”
He made a low sound in his throat. “Right. Because you’re a professional analyzer.”
“Exactly.”
“I get it, Mel,” he said after a pause. “I’m not good at this stuff. Talking on the phone, not seeing you, it’s all weird. I sound better when I’m within arm’s reach.”
“I’ll give you that,” I said, half a smile tugging at my mouth. “You are more effective in person.”
“Effective,” he repeated. “That’s romantic.”
“I’m a woman of precision.”
“Precision is sexy,” he said, his voice dropping just a touch.
I rolled my eyes, even as my pulse tripped. “You can’t flirt your way out of this conversation.”
“Can’t I?”
“No,” I said firmly. “You’re deflecting.”
“Deflecting,” he echoed. “Fancy word for scared.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said, but his tone wasn’t rough. Just knowing. “You’ve been scared since the minute you said yes. Maybe before that.”
I opened my mouth, and closed it. Because he wasn’t off.
“Drew,” I said finally, “this is hard.”
“I know.”
“And it’s messy.”
“Always.”
“And I don’t know how to do it without feeling like I’m halfway between two lives.”
He was quiet for a second. “You are.”
I looked at the snow globe again, the little bridge over the frozen river. My throat ached. “Then maybe I’m the problem.”
“Or maybe you just haven’t picked which side of the bridge you want to stand on yet.”
“That’s poetic for a bartender.”
“I’ve been reading,” he said, deadpan. “Riley said it would help.”
That made me laugh in spite of myself as the line went quiet again.
It wasn’t awkward, but it was fragile. We were circling the part where honesty meets self-defense, and I wasn’t sure which of us would blink first.
I stared down at my half-empty wine glass and said quietly, “You didn’t overstep.”
“Sure feels like I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then why do you sound like you’re already walking away?”
“I’m not.”
“Then what is this, Mel?”
I opened my mouth, ready to explain, ready to untangle it, when the doorbell rang.
Loud. Insistent.
“Oh, for…” I muttered, fumbling for the phone. “Hang on, someone’s at the—”
“I should let you go,” he said quickly.
“No, it’s…”
“It’s fine,” he explained.
The bell rang again.
“Drew—”
“Night, Mel.”
“Drew, just hold on...”
I yanked open the door, half expecting a neighbor, maybe a delivery driver.
Instead, there stood my mom holding a Nordstrom bag the size of a small child and wearing an expression that said I was in the neighborhood, which was a lie because she lived an hour away.
“Mom?” I said, still clutching the phone.
“Surprise!” she said brightly. “You didn’t answer my text, so I thought I’d come check on you. I bought you a new sweater. Holiday red, very flattering. And I need to hear about your trip up north.”
“Of course you do,” I murmured, giving my mom a hug and letting her step inside.
She breezed past me, hanging her coat neatly on the hook and taking in the apartment with the careful eyes of someone who both approves and judges simultaneously.
“Well, this is cozy,” she said. “You actually decorated this year. That’s new.”
Behind me, the phone glowed faintly in my hand with Drew’s name still written on the screen.
I thumbed it off speaker and whispered, “I’ll call you later.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
And we hung up.
Welcome to long distance, whatever this was called.
My mom turned around just as I set the phone face down on the counter. “Who was that?”
I forced a smile and reached for the Nordstrom bag like it might save me.
“No one important,” I lied, because saying his name right now might make me break.
“Hmm,” she said, unconvinced but too polite to push. “Well, I brought wine too.”
Of course she had.
As she pulled out a bottle of merlot and started talking about the holiday traffic, I stared out the window at the glittering city below with horns and lights and chaos, and wondered if Drew was still on the other end of that silence, wondering the same thing I was.
How something that had started with a simple phone call could already feel like a goodbye.