24. The Pivotal Decision #2
I stare at it, feeling the weight of everything I haven’t told him yet pressing against the surface of our usual banter.
We’re okay after the birthday weekend. Closer, in some ways.
Softer with each other. We said a lot of good, honest things in between kisses and cake.
But none of that answered the question that’s been humming under my skin since I stepped back into my apartment and watched him disappear through security again. Where is this all going? I type back.
Morning’s… big. I have something to tell you later. Call when you’re free?
The typing bubble pops up almost immediately.
Reid: That sounds ominous. But okay. I have class till 2, then I’m yours.
I stare at those last three words— I’m yours—feeling both comforted and uneasy.
Because if he’s mine, and I’m his, then the choices we make from here on out aren’t just about who we are right now.
They’re about who we’re allowed to become.
Reid calls the morning after I get back home.
His voice sounds lighter, rested, still softened from the weekend.
I balance my laptop on one knee while reviewing sprint tickets and try to ignore the small knot under my ribs that hasn’t left since I walked out of his dorm building.
He talks about practice drills, a group study session, the exam he thinks he barely passed.
It sounds normal, but normal suddenly feels too thin.
He shifts the call. “Coach wants me to start thinking about internships for the summer. There’s one in Michigan and another in Seattle. The Michigan one is basically guaranteed if I apply.”
My typing stops. “Michigan,” I say.
“Yeah.” He sounds excited in that quiet way he gets when he’s trying not to jinx an opportunity. “It’s only three months. But if I do well, they’d put me on track for a fall co-op. Maybe even a job after graduation.”
I stare at my screen as if the text will rearrange itself into something easier. “That’s great,” I say.
“It is,” he says. “But it depends on what we want long-term. I keep thinking… once I finish, we can figure out where to land. Together.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?”
He pauses, confused that I’m confused. “I mean wherever I get hired. Or wherever I go to grad school if I apply. You and Liam could move with me. Fresh start. New city. Better cost of living.”
I sit up. “Reid,” I say slowly, “I don’t know if I can just pick up and move across the country.”
“Why not?” he asks. He’s not being dismissive; he genuinely doesn’t see the problem. “Your job is flexible. You work remote half the time anyway.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say. “Nexus offered me a leadership-track role. It’s not remote. It’s a real chance to build a career here. And Liam has daycare, stability, my mom, Destiny… everything rooted here. Uprooting all that for a job you might get is not nothing.”
Silence settles, tight and unexpected.
“I didn’t know you were thinking about staying,” he says quietly.
“I thought you knew,” I reply.
“No,” he says. “I thought we’d figure things out once I finished school, and you’d come with me. I assumed that was the plan.”
My chest tightens. “Assumed,” I repeat.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “But you made decisions in your head without checking if they fit our life here.”
He exhales slowly. “I’m trying to make a future that works for all of us. I just thought… we’d be flexible.”
“I am flexible,” I say, “but Liam is not. And my job can’t bend the way yours can.”
His voice is softer now. “So what are you saying?”
“That our futures don’t line up as neatly as we thought.”
We don’t fight. We don’t argue. But something settles between us that neither of us can smooth out.
Halloween comes fast, faster than I want it to. Liam insists on being a fire truck, not a firefighter—an actual truck—so Destiny spends the afternoon helping me tape cardboard pieces together while providing very loud, very unhelpful fashion critique.
“You’re making him look like a delivery van,” she says.
“He’s two,” I say. “He won’t know the difference.”
Liam toddles through the living room in his cardboard costume, making engine noises that sound more like angry humming.
He’s thrilled. That’s enough. But while I dress him, my mind keeps replaying the conversation with Reid.
Masks, costumes, shifting identities—it all feels too on-the-nose.
Halloween is supposed to be fun, yet all I can think about is how much pretending we’ve been doing without realizing it.
Reid FaceTimes us as we’re getting ready to leave. He smiles at Liam, who proudly rams his cardboard fire truck into the wall. Reid laughs, but I see the flicker of something else in his eyes—distance he can’t bridge through the screen.
“You look tired,” he tells me.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re lying,” he says.
“I’m managing,” I say.
He watches me for a second too long. “I hate that I’m missing this.”
“You can come next year,” I tell him.
“Next year,” he repeats. “Where? Here? Or wherever I end up?”
I don’t have an answer. The silence on the line turns heavy.
Later that night, after trick-or-treating and after Liam finally crashes face-down on his pillow, I sit on the couch with a blanket and replay every version of the future I’ve imagined.
Reid visiting on weekends. Me visiting him. Us tag-teaming parenting from two different states. Me moving with him and rebuilding everything from scratch. Him turning down opportunities so he can stay here. Every option comes with a cost. When my phone buzzes, I expect Reid. It’s Hazel.
She flops onto the call already half lying on her bed. “Your text sounded dramatic. Are you dying or is this a boyfriend crisis?”
“Crisis,” I say.
She bites into a Twizzler and waits.
“He wants me to move with him after graduation,” I say. “Wherever he ends up.”
“Okay,” she says. “That sounds romantic. Stressful, but romantic.”
“I got offered a leadership-track role at work,” I say. “Here. Not anywhere else.”
Hazel sits up straighter. “Wait. Are you serious? That's huge.”
“I know,” I say. “But accepting it means I stay. Rejecting it means waiting around for his hypothetical career path.”
“Do you want to take it?” she asks.
“I think so,” I say. “I’ve worked my ass off. It’s the first time I’ve felt… seen.”
“Then he’ll figure it out,” she says. “You guys are endgame. You always find your way back.”
I nod, but the knot in my chest doesn’t budge. After she hangs up, Destiny texts.
Destiny: Hazel said you’re spiraling.
Not spiraling. Just thinking.
Destiny: Same thing.
She calls without asking.
“Say it,” she demands.
“I don’t know if following Reid makes sense for Liam,” I say quietly. “And it might not make sense for me either.”
“Then don’t,” she says. “Don’t throw away your future for a guy. Even if he’s a good one. Even if you love him.”
I rub my temples. “It’s not that simple.”
“It kind of is,” she says. “You pick the path that doesn’t make you resent him later.”
I go still. Because that’s the part that scares me the most—that love is not the issue.
Logistics are. And logistics don’t care about feelings.
When the call ends, the apartment is quiet again.
Liam’s soft snores drift down the hall. A porch light flickers outside.
Halloween decorations rustle in the wind.
I sit there a long time, staring at the dark. I haven’t even accepted the leadership offer yet, but I already know one truth: No matter what choice I make, something important will break open. And I’m afraid neither of us is ready for that.
The house is quiet after I put Liam down—too quiet.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t settle so much as demand to be filled with decisions I’m not ready to make.
I rinse out his sippy cup and line it on the counter to dry.
The leadership email from HR sits unread in my inbox, staring at me from my laptop like it knows exactly why my stomach has been knotted for the last four hours.
It feels heavy—bigger than a promotion, bigger than a title shift. A choice with gravity.
The job means permanence. Staying. Committing to this city, this apartment, this routine. Stability for Liam. Predictability for me. A future not built on maybes. But Reid’s future feels like one long maybe right now.
Grad school applications in three different states.
Internships with aerospace companies scattered across the map.
“We’ll figure it out,” he keeps saying, as if “figuring it out” doesn’t mean uprooting Liam’s life and hoping my company magically develops remote positions for the sake of our relationship.
I lean my palms on the countertop and close my eyes for a second. The weight of wanting two things that don’t fit in the same life makes my chest feel tight. My phone buzzes.
Hazel: Wine. Now. I’m outside.
I grab my jacket and step onto the balcony walkway. Hazel stands by the railing holding a bottle that definitely cost more than she should’ve spent.
“You look like someone told you they’re canceling Christmas,” she says, pushing past me into the apartment.
“I feel like someone canceled the concept of time,” I mutter.
“That bad?” she asks, dropping onto the couch and patting the cushion next to her.
I sit, take the glass she pours, and exhale slowly. “Reid wants to apply to grad schools. Everywhere.”
“That’s good, right? Ambition? Future money? Big science brain things?”
“Yes,” I say. “But he also kind of… assumed I’d just go wherever he goes.”
Hazel winces. “Oof. No discussion?”
“Not really. He said it like it was obvious.” I stare at my glass. “But Liam’s daycare, my job, our support system—none of those things are portable.”
She drinks. “Okay, but let’s talk about the real crisis: what do you want?”
“I want him,” I say instantly. “But I also want stability. A home that doesn’t change every two years. A life that isn’t constantly waiting for someone else’s schedule to settle.”
Hazel nods slowly. “You can want both. Doesn’t mean they come in one package.”