23. A Long-Distance Love #2
“Thank you,” I say. “Seriously.”
“No problem,” he says. “He talks about you and Liam all the time. It’ll be good for him to see you without a Wi-Fi delay.”
That lands somewhere warm. When I step into Reid’s room, the first thing I notice is the photo of us on his desk—me holding baby Liam, both of us laughing at something out of frame. It’s taped right above his laptop, like he needs the reminder every time he sits down.
I set the small cake on his dresser, the gift bag next to it, and then just…
stand there for a second, absorbing the space.
His sneakers are kicked half under the bed, his hoodie thrown over his chair, a stack of notes with half-legible handwriting spread across the desk.
This is his life when I’m not in it. Books and jerseys and late nights that don’t involve a baby monitor. The door handle clicks.
“Dude, the guy at the desk said?—”
He stops dead in the doorway. For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Then his entire face changes—tension dropping, eyes going wide, mouth curve into something I haven’t seen in weeks.
“Amelia,” he breathes.
“Happy birthday,” I say, suddenly shy. “Surprise?”
He crosses the room in three long strides and pulls me into his arms so fast my feet leave the floor. I cling to him, laughing, breathless.
“You’re here,” he says into my shoulder. “You’re actually here.”
“I am,” I say. “In the flesh. Not a glitchy FaceTime version.”
When he finally sets me down, his hands stay on my waist like he’s not ready to let go.
“How?” he asks. “What about Liam? Work?”
“Mom and Destiny have him,” I say. “I shifted some stuff at Nexus. I’m here until Sunday.”
His eyes soften in a way that makes my chest feel too small. “You did all that for me?”
“For us,” I correct. “Also, I needed an excuse to escape Goldfish crumbs and laundry for forty-eight hours.”
He laughs, but it’s wet around the edges. “Best birthday present ever.”
I gesture toward the desk. “Technically, there’s also cake. And a gift. I didn’t know what college birthday etiquette was, so I winged it.”
He sees the bag and shakes his head. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I wanted to,” I say.
He pulls out the box, opens it, and goes quiet. The watch isn’t anything dramatic—simple black band, clean face, something he can wear with almost anything. He runs his thumb along the edge like he’s afraid to smudge it.
“Amelia,” he says. “This is… way too much.”
“It’s not,” I say quickly. “It’s not some luxury brand. I just… wanted you to have something you can wear to important stuff later. Interviews. Meetings. Whatever.”
He looks up at me, eyes shining. “You really think I’m going to get to all that?”
“I don’t buy watches for people I think are going to flunk out,” I say.
He laughs, but there’s a crack in it. “No pressure, right?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “Reid?—”
“I know,” he cuts in. “I’m kidding. Kind of.”
He puts the watch on, fiddling with the clasp. It looks good on him. Like a glimpse of the man he’s trying to become.
“Thank you,” he says, voice low. “For this. For being here. For everything.”
“Don’t get sappy,” I say, even as my throat tightens. “You’re going to ruin your tough athlete brand.”
He smirks. “Too late. I’m whipped. Everyone knows.”
We don’t have long. His teammates are expecting him at dinner, and if he bails, he’ll be hearing about it for months.
“Go,” I say when he hesitates. “I’ll be here when you get back. We’ll do cake and real celebrating after.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“Positive,” I say. “I can entertain myself for a couple hours. Try not to complain about me too much.”
“I only complain when you’re not around,” he says. “Now I have to brag.”
He kisses me once—quick and warm—and then reluctantly pulls away.
“I’ll be back as fast as I can,” he says. “I don’t want to waste any of this.”
When the door closes behind him, the room feels different. Not empty. Just waiting. I sit on his bed and let myself breathe for a minute. We did this. We survived another year. We’re still choosing each other, even when it’s messy.
But under the excitement, the weight of the last few weeks doesn’t vanish. It lingers at the edges—missed calls, tired texts, that knot in my chest every time we say “later” and mean “I hope we’re both still awake.”
Tonight, there’s no distance to blame if things feel off.
It’ll just be us. For better or for harder.
He gets back later than I expect. By the time the door opens, I’ve changed into leggings and one of his hoodies, washed my face, and spent a ridiculous amount of time scrolling through pictures of Liam to keep myself from overthinking.
“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him.
His hair is mussed from the wind, cheeks still pink from the walk back. He smells like cold air and fry oil and something sharp underneath—anxiety, maybe.
“How was it?” I ask.
“Loud,” he says, dropping his keys on the desk. “They kept buying me dessert. I think I had three different things made of chocolate.”
“Tragic,” I say. “You must be devastated.”
He smiles, then glances at the clock. “I’m sorry it took so long. I tried to leave earlier, but?—”
“Reid,” I cut in. “It’s okay. I knew you had dinner plans. I’m just glad you’re here now.”
He crosses to the bed and sits down next to me, close but not quite touching. The little gap between us feels like a statement.
“How was Liam today?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say. “He apparently insisted on wearing his dinosaur pajamas to daycare. Mom sent a picture.”
I show him, and his face softens instantly. “God, he’s getting so big.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
There’s a beat of silence. Not comfortable, not exactly strained—just full of things neither of us has said yet.
“Hey,” he says after a moment. “About the other night. When I texted and said I’d just crash.”
I stiffen before I can stop it. “You were tired. I get it.”
“I was tired,” he agrees. “But I was also… mad. Not at you. Just… at everything.”
“At everything,” I repeat.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’d been looking forward to that call all day. I kept checking the time in lab. When eight hit and you weren’t there, and then fifteen minutes went by… I felt stupid for caring so much.”
My chest tightens. “You weren’t stupid.”
“I know that,” he says. “Now. But in the moment, it felt like I was seventeen again, waiting around for someone to decide if they had time for me.”
“That’s not what I was doing,” I say, heart pounding. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. You’re not my dad. You’re not anyone who ever bailed on me. You were fixing a bug. It just hit a nerve.”
The word “nerve” feels too small for the way my stomach drops. “You could’ve called me out,” I say. “Instead of just… backing off.”
He huffs out a breath. “I didn’t want to start something over text. Or on a night when we were both already tired.”
“So we just… don’t say anything?” I ask. “Let the weirdness sit there until it grows its own personality?”
He finally looks at me head-on. “I’m saying something now.”
The air between us goes taut.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Then I’ll say something too.”
“Good,” he says, equally quiet. “Because this… whatever this is? It’s been building.”
I pick at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve.
“I feel like everything is a test I’m failing,” I say.
“At work, I have to be on it or things fall apart. With Liam, I have to be on it or he literally hurts himself. With you, I want to be on it, but I only have so much ‘on’ to give. And when I miss a call or you miss a call, it feels like evidence that I can’t hold it all. ”
His expression shifts—something like pain crossing his features. “I don’t want to be another test, Amelia.”
“I know you don’t,” I say. “But sometimes it feels like I have to choose between being a good partner, a good mom, and a good employee. And I’m so scared that no matter what, I’m letting someone down.”
He swallows. “And sometimes I feel like I’m watching you carry all of that while I’m over here just… doing homework.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re working your ass off. You’re building something for us.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t feel like enough. I’m supposed to be the man in this relationship and I can’t even pay for my own textbooks without help from my mom and loans. You’re paying daycare, rent, groceries, everything. I hate that.”
My heart cracks a little at the way he says it. “You’re getting a degree,” I say. “That’s not nothing. That’s the whole point of us doing it this hard way.”
“Yeah, but while I’m here memorizing formulas, you’re missing calls because you’re putting out fires at work and raising our son,” he says.
“And when I finally do call, sometimes you sound… far away. Or you rush. Or you’re half on your email.
I know you’re trying, I do. But it makes me feel like this path I’m on is pulling me away from you instead of toward you. ”
The words hit hard because they mirror the fear I’ve been trying not to say out loud.
“I feel that too,” I admit. “Like we’re walking in the same general direction but on different streets.”
His eyes close briefly. “Do you ever wonder if we made the wrong call?”
“That’s not fair,” I say, voice catching. “Wrong call about what? Having Liam? Staying together? Going to school? Which part of our life would you change?”
“None of it,” he says immediately. “That’s the problem. I wouldn’t change any of the big decisions. But I hate that the cost is… this.”
This. The distance. The missed moments. The way we keep apologizing for existing in separate places.
I exhale slowly. “I don’t think we made the wrong call,” I say. “I think we underestimated how heavy it would be.”
He laughs once, humorless. “Understatement of the century.”
We sit with that for a moment, the silence thick but not empty.