CHAPTER 22
At first, they made it work. Or at least, they believed they could.
It was easier for Randi. Her residency would last only six months.
Even though she had her own studio, creating at the school offered focus, no interruptions, and more anchored toward her commitment as an artist. But most importantly this Institution offered her a prestigious status - a beacon to curators and collectors, that she was an artist to watch.
Their calls came regularly in the beginning. Zoom made it more enjoyable but lacked the physical connection and intimacy.
It was challenging with morning check-ins, midday spurts, and late-night conversations that stretched longer than either of them planned, voices softening as exhaustion settled in but neither willing to be the one to hang up first.
They shared everything. Their days and frustrations. The small victories that no one else would understand.
Brew spoke of the clinic, of rebuilding something meaningful in Montana, of long days spent balancing leadership with the same hands-on work he had always known. His voice carried the quiet satisfaction of purpose, even when it was layered with fatigue.
Randi spoke of the Institute, of new connections forming, of curators and collectors, of rooms filled with art that both inspired and intimidated her. She was finding her footing, slowly but surely, her confidence growing in ways she hadn’t expected.
They listened and encouraged each other and held onto each other desperately through words. Time and distance had a way of changing things, subtly, undercover, without asking permission, taking blindly.
It was life. It got in the way. The calls became shorter. Neither one realized they were doing it. It wasn’t intentional. It happened more than not.
The excuses were universal but unintentional, still spoken.
I’ll call you later. Can we postpone? I’ll call you after this. I’ve got one more thing to finish. Tomorrow will be different.
And sometimes tomorrow came and sometimes it didn’t. Extensive voicemails or rushed, replaced conversations. Quick check-ins between responsibilities.
Thinking of you.
Miss you.
God, it’s been a long day.
They were all true attempts to hold on, Still real, but so much thinner.
Randi found herself rereading old messages more often than she wanted to admit.
Listening to his voicemails when the silence in her apartment stretched too far.
Holding onto the sound of his voice as if it might fade if she didn’t.
In Montana, Brew ended more nights alone than he expected.
The house was never truly empty. His family filled it with life but the quiet moments at the end of the day were his alone. That’s when it settled in, raw and real, and it scared him. The absence.
He reached for his phone more times than he counted.
Sometimes he called with excitement. Sometimes he didn’t because of pure exhaustion or another emergency got in the way.
And sometimes he stared at her name on the screen, knowing she was likely just as tired or consumed as he was. And told himself it could wait.
The visits became harder to plan and schedules refused to align. What had once felt like something they could navigate now required effort that neither of them had the time or the energy to navigate and give consistently.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said one night.
“I know,” she replied.
But there was something quieter beneath it.
Less certain.
The first canceled visit didn’t seem like much.
“Something came up,” he said. “I can’t get away this weekend.”
“That’s okay,” she told him.
And she meant it.
The second one lingered longer.
“I tried,” she said. “I just … I couldn’t get out of it.”
“I understand.”
And he did. But understanding didn’t make it easier.
This time it was painful for them both. The loneliness cut deep, sucked the joy from their souls.
Days turned into weeks.
The rhythm they had built tumbled into something less defined, solid, and less certain.
One night, Randi fell asleep with her phone still in her hand, a long-awaited conversation unfinished.
When she woke up the next morning, there was a message waiting.
Sorry. I must’ve missed you.
She stared at it longer than she should have.
Because she hadn’t missed him.
He had just … stopped.
In Montana, Brew stood outside one evening, the sky stretching wide and endless above him, the same stars they had once stood beneath together.
He remembered that night. The promise they had made to move forward together. It was a commitment each one of them desired most of their adult life.
He exhaled slowly. The word felt different now. It wasn’t gone entirely. It still lingered … strained.
Back in Minnesota, Randi stood in her studio, brush in hand, staring at a canvas she couldn’t seem to finish.
The image was there, recreated from a snapshot she took on the ranch. The feeling was gone because Brew wasn’t in it, with her, holding each other under a Montana moon.
She set the brush down and slowly stepped back. And for the first time since all of this had begun, she wondered if distance wasn’t just space. She had the power to quietly undo what had once felt certain.
Neither of them said it out loud or gave it a name at that very same moment more than eight hundred miles apart.
But they both felt it.
That undeniable pull.