23. A Long-Distance Love
A LONG-DISTANCE LOVE
The apartment is quiet in that fragile, between-things way—Liam finally down for a nap, dishwasher humming, email notifications stacking up on my laptop. I’m halfway through drafting a message to Eric when my phone lights up next to the keyboard.
We scheduled this call three days ago. I told Hazel. I told my mom. I reminded myself twice this morning so I wouldn’t get stuck at work.
Yeah. I’m home.
Reid: Good. I miss your face.
I smile at the screen, then close my laptop and shove it a little farther away than I need to. Our life is one big balancing act as it is; the least I can do is give him my full attention for thirty minutes.
By the time his name flashes across my phone, I’m curled up on the couch with my legs tucked under me, hair twisted into something that looks intentional if you don’t look too closely.
“Hey,” I say, answering.
“Hey.” His voice is rough around the edges, like he hasn’t slept properly in days. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of his dorm—open textbook, empty coffee cup, a hoodie draped over the back of his chair.
“You look wrecked,” I say.
“Thanks,” he deadpans. “Exactly the ego boost I needed.”
I snort. “Long day?”
“Lab ran over,” he says. “Then we had this group meeting where no one had read the article we were supposed to discuss. Including me. So that was fun.”
“Love that for you,” I say. “Did you at least fake it convincingly?”
“Obviously,” he says. “I’ve had practice. Remember your AP English class?”
I roll my eyes, but my chest warms. “You’re terrible.”
“You love me,” he says, easy and automatic.
“I do,” I say—and I mean it.
Liam’s nap doesn’t last long. It never does these days. Ten minutes into the call, I hear him over the baby monitor, making those first restless sounds that mean “I might go back to sleep” or “I’m about to scream like you’ve abandoned me forever.”
Reid pauses mid-sentence. “That him?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s been fighting naps like it’s his job.”
“Go get him,” Reid says. “I want to see him.”
When I lift Liam out of his crib, he’s warm and heavy, hair flattened on one side. He squints against the light in the living room, then spots Reid on my phone screen.
“Dada,” he says, pointing.
Reid’s whole face softens. “Hey, buddy. Look at you, big man. Did you terrorize daycare today?”
“Pretty sure he bit a kid,” I say. “They called it ‘exploring boundaries,’ which I think is code for ‘we don’t want to say he attacked someone.’”
Reid laughs, but there’s a slowness to it. “He gets it from you.”
“Wow,” I say. “Rude.”
We settle into the half-chaotic rhythm we’ve developed—me juggling Liam and the phone, Reid making faces to keep him engaged. It’s okay. Not effortless the way it used to be, but okay. Until it isn’t.
“So guess what?” I say when Liam wanders off to investigate his blocks. “I finally got moved onto the new Nexus project full-time. Eric said?—”
“Oh, crap,” Reid mutters, glancing off-screen. “Hang on.”
There’s shuffling, a muffled voice calling his name, the sound of something sliding off the desk.
“I forgot I told Noah I’d help him with a problem set before practice,” he says, attention split. “Can we talk about it later? I swear I want to hear it, I just?—”
My stomach tightens. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll call you tonight after film review,” he says. “Promise.”
“Okay,” I say, because what else is there?
We say goodbye faster than I want to. The call ends.
The apartment shrinks back in around me.
It’s not like he hung up to go partying.
He’s not out doing something reckless. He’s just…
busy. Overloaded. Being pulled in ten directions the same way I am.
But still, the tiny sting is there. Later that week, the reverse happens.
We’ve got another call planned—just us this time, no toddler in the mix. I rearrange Liam’s bedtime, bribe him with an extra story, practically sprint through dishes so I can be ready by eight. At seven fifty-five, Eric pings me.
Eric: Quick question before I log off—can you hop on for a few minutes? The client pushed a change and I want your eyes on it.
I stare at the message, then at the clock. If I say no, it looks like I’m not a team player. If I say yes, I’m risking another “sorry, can we move this” text to Reid. My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Amelia: Sure. Quick call?
Fifteen minutes, I tell myself. Twenty tops.
It’s never fifteen. We end up deep in a small-but-important bug that affects the dashboard metrics.
It’s not dramatic enough to warrant overtime paperwork, but it can’t be ignored.
I focus, answer questions, suggest a fix.
When we finally log off, my shoulders are tight and my eyes ache from staring at my monitor.
I glance at my phone. One missed call from Reid. One new message.
Reid: Guess work ran over again. I’ll just crash. Goodnight.
The timestamp is 8:12. My chest goes cold. I call immediately. It rings and rings and goes to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Reid. You know what to do.”
I hang up without leaving a message and rest my forehead against my hand, fingers digging into my hair.
He has every right to be annoyed. We both circled this time in our calendars. I didn’t even send a quick “running late” text. Work pulled me in and I let it happen because that’s what I’m used to doing—fix the issue, then deal with feelings later.
Only now, “feelings later” has a face and a name and a life a few hundred miles away that I keep accidentally pushing down the list.
I sink onto the couch and type, fingers moving slower than usual.
I’m sorry. Eric called right before eight about a bug we had to fix before tomorrow. I should’ve texted. That’s on me.
I know it probably feels like you come second to my job sometimes. That’s not how it is in my head, but I get why it lands that way.
I love you. I’m still here. Even when I’m terrible at time management.
I stare at the messages for a long moment, then hit send. His reply doesn’t come right away. When it does, I feel both better and worse.
Reid: I know you’re not choosing work over me. I’m just selfish and miss you.
Reid: Long day. I’ll be better tomorrow.
Reid: We can talk then, okay?
Okay. I love you.
Reid: Love you too.
I lock my phone and lean back, closing my eyes. This—this push and pull, the missed calls and half-finished conversations—is starting to feel less like a glitch and more like the new normal. And that thought scares me more than I want to admit.
Reid’s birthday falls on a Friday this year, which feels slightly less offensive than a weekday but still not ideal.
If life were fair, all major relationship milestones would happen on long weekends with built-in childcare and no deadlines.
Life is not fair. Two weeks before, I start planning anyway.
Hazel sprawls across my couch while Liam uses her leg as a ramp for his trucks.
“So,” she says, scrolling on her phone. “What’s the plan? Long-distance birthday via Zoom? Or are we going full surprise-visit-girlfriend?”
“I’m thinking surprise,” I say. “Friday after work, drive up, stay ’til Sunday. Mom said she’d keep Liam, and Destiny already volunteered as backup.”
Hazel’s eyes light. “I love this for you. Operation Campus Heist.”
“It’s not a heist,” I say. “I’m just showing up.”
“Same vibe,” she says. “What are you bringing? You can’t just walk in empty-handed like ‘hi, I’m the mother of your child and also your birthday present.’”
I actually consider saying that out loud to him and then decide I value my dignity. “Small cake,” I say. “A gift, if I can figure out something we can afford that doesn’t scream ‘I looked at your bank account and panicked.’”
Hazel props her chin on her hand. “What about a watch? Nice but not ridiculous. Practical. Symbolic. ‘I see how hard you’re working, and I’m choosing to spend time with you’ type thing.”
“That’s… actually good,” I say, surprised.
She clutches her chest. “Wow. The lack of faith.”
“I’ll get him a watch,” I say. “Nothing crazy. Just something that says ‘I believe in the version of you that wears this to important things later.’”
The week leading up to his birthday, he’s quieter on calls. Not cold, just… buried.
“Midterms,” he says on Tuesday, voice muffled because he’s talking around a sandwich. “And Coach keeps hinting about some scout coming to a game next month. Everybody’s on edge.”
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says automatically, then softens. “Just tired. I feel like I’m juggling plates and if one drops, the whole thing goes down.”
“Same,” I say. “Except my plates are daycare forms and sprint tickets.”
He smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
We confirm the plan he thinks is happening: dinner with a couple of teammates on his actual birthday, then a “real” call with me and Liam Saturday.
He has no idea I’ve already cleared Friday with Eric, shifted a few tasks, and packed an overnight bag with more care than I did for Liam’s hospital bag. The day of, I drop Liam at my mom’s with enough supplies to survive an apocalypse. She hugs me tight at the door.
“Go,” she says. “Have fun.”
“Promise to call if anything—” I start.
She gives me a look. “Amelia. I raised you. I can handle one toddler for a weekend.”
Destiny leans over from the couch. “Don’t get engaged,” she singsongs. “I’m not mentally prepared to hear about flower arrangements.”
“Relax,” I say, laughing. “We can barely get through a phone call without drama. Nobody’s picking venues.”
I drive up with the radio low and my mind too loud. Part of me is buzzing—about seeing him, about being in his world for a minute instead of just hearing about it. Another part is nervous in a way I can’t quite name.
We’ve been fraying at the edges for weeks. Surprising him could be exactly what we need… or a magnifying glass on how tired we both are. His roommate, Noah, meets me by the dorm entrance, grinning like we’re in on a prank.
“He has no clue,” Noah says. “I told him I needed help getting a package from the front desk after dinner.”