Gage
My cursor blinks on the screen like it has a personal grudge.
It’s not an urgent email. It’s not a crisis. It’s not even something that requires CEO-level brain power. It’s a perfectly normal message that I’ve drafted three times, rewritten twice, and stared at for so long I’m pretty sure the letters are starting to rearrange themselves out of boredom.
SUBJECT: Follow-up
That’s it. That’s all it needs to be.
And yet my finger won’t click send, because my brain is busy playing a different subject line on a loop:
WE KISSED.
The worst part is it wasn’t even a chaotic kiss.
It wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment, whoops-that-happened kiss.
It was quiet. Warm. Safe.
The kind of kiss that doesn’t just happen—
the kind that arrives after years of choosing not to see what’s in front of you.
Which means my brain has been replaying it all day like a song it can’t turn off.
Reece’s breath catching.
Her hand tightening in the blanket.
That half-second of hesitation where she could’ve stepped back and didn’t.
And the way she looked at me afterward—like the ground shifted under her.
Like she realized what it meant the same moment I did.
I’m sitting in my home office with the door closed, the house quiet again now that power has fully returned and the generator has gone back to being a dormant threat in the backyard.
My parents’ old desk is in front of me. My laptop is open.
The snow outside is bright and still, reflecting light into the room like the world is pretending everything is fresh and new.
Nothing feels new.
Everything feels different.
Reece has been polite since she went home.
Worse.
Polite in the way that creates distance without saying the word distance. Polite like she’s putting our entire lives back into neat categories she can control.
Neighbor.
Boss.
Employee.
Friend.
Not… whatever the kiss tried to become.
I rub my thumb across the edge of my phone, debating whether to text her something normal. Something safe.
You okay?
No. Too loaded.
Need anything?
Too obvious.
Quick check—how are you and the drafty windows holding up? Do I need to bring tape and a peace treaty?
That would get me the closest thing to a laugh.
The truth is—Reece is not avoiding me.
At least I don’t think she is.
And if she is then…
she’s avoiding me in a way that looks careful.
And careful is a language we both speak fluently.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
I glance down, expecting work.
Instead, the screen reads:
Mom
My first thought is: Of course.
My second thought is: Please do not ask how things are going with Reece.
My third thought is: She will absolutely ask.
I answer before she can call again.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Gage!” her voice floods the room like sunlight. “I have news!”
I blink. “Okay.”
“First of all,” she says, already in motion, “your father is upset because the airline offered him a voucher and he said, ‘I don’t want a voucher, I want my son.’”
I lean back in my chair, a small smile tugging at my mouth despite myself. “That sounds like Dad.”
“It does,” she agrees, cheerful. “Anyway—surprise plan failed.”
My stomach dips. “Failed how?”
“Our flight got canceled,” she announces like it’s an exciting plot twist and not a logistical nightmare. “We were going to surprise you today. Like, show up on your doorstep and act like we never left.”
I glance out the window at the snow. “In this weather?”
“Yes,” she says brightly. “We are resilient.”
“You are determined,” I correct.
“Same thing,” she says, and I can hear her smile. “But—good news—we’re coming tomorrow.”
I sit up straighter. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she confirms. “Wednesday. We land at one, rental car, groceries, and we’ll be at the house around three.”
The house.
Their old house.
The one I’ve lived in since they moved to Georgia. The one that still smells like pine cleaner and old family traditions if you breathe in the right corner.
My brain tries to process this calmly and fails.
“Three,” I repeat.
“Yes,” my mother says, thrilled. “So when you get home, we’ll already be there!”
I stare at my desk.
Tomorrow at three.
My mother in my kitchen.
My father checking my thermostat like it’s a moral issue.
And Reece next door—either present or very much not.
My chest tightens.
Mom keeps talking, because she always does.
“I can’t wait to see the street,” she says. “And the porch. And the snow. And your mailbox. Do you still have the little snow shovel by the steps? The blue one?”
“I have a shovel,” I say carefully.
“Oh!” she says like I just gave her a gift. “Perfect. We’ll help dig out.”
I almost laugh. “We’re all dug out, thanks.”
“That’s wonderful,” she says, not asking how, because she assumes I’m a capable adult who can handle snow.
If only she knew how many of my life problems get solved by plowing something stubborn until it moves.
“And listen,” she says, her voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone she uses when she’s about to announce a surprise party or a new casserole recipe like it’s classified information. “This is the best part.”
My stomach sinks. There is always a best part.
“Okay,” I say cautiously.
“We planned a whole surprise,” she says, delighted. “Like, an actual coordinated one. We were going to show up at your house today and act innocent while you had a small emotional breakdown on the porch.”
“Mom.”
“I’m serious,” she insists. “And we didn’t plan it alone. Linda and Patrick were in on it, too.”
I go still. “Reece’s parents?”
“Yes!” she says, practically vibrating through the phone. “We all booked the same flight on purpose so we’d land together, get the rental cars, and arrive like some kind of cheerful invasion.”
I stare at the wall of my office like it might offer guidance.
It does not.
“And then,” she continues, unbothered by my silence, “the flight got canceled, so the surprise got rescheduled, not ruined. Now we’re all arriving tomorrow instead.”
My throat goes dry. “You coordinated with Linda and Patrick.”
“Of course we did,” she says, as if this is the most reasonable thing in the world. “We’ve been friends for decades. We can coordinate an ambush.”
“An ambush,” I repeat.
“A loving one,” she corrects. “We were going to text you at the last second—something vague like, ‘Don’t make plans,’ and then show up with groceries and hugs.”
I exhale slowly. “That explains… a lot.”
“It explains perfection,” she says. “And now we get to do it tomorrow. Wednesday. Land at one. House by three. Easy.”
“They’re still coming,” Mom adds, like she’s reminding me of a calendar appointment. “Linda said she already packed, and Patrick said he’s not wasting a perfectly good surprise just because an airline tried to ruin everyone’s fun.”
That tracks.
Mom barrels on.
“So!” she says. “Dinner tomorrow night. All of us. Like old times.”
My throat goes dry.
“Mom,” I begin carefully, “tomorrow might be a lot. Roads—”
“Oh, roads,” she scoffs. “We have four-wheel drive and optimism.”
“Optimism isn’t a tire,” I say.
“It’s a lifestyle,” she corrects without missing a beat. “And besides, it’ll be fun. We’ll catch up. Laugh. Eat. No excuses.”
No excuses.
The phrase hits differently when you’re currently living inside a situation that is mostly excuse-shaped.
Mom continues, lighter. “And obviously Reece will be there.”
My whole body stills.
I keep my voice neutral because my mother has the hearing of a hawk when it comes to emotional shifts.
“I don’t know,” I say. “She may have plans.”
“Plans?” my mother repeats, sounding genuinely confused. “Reece Callahan? Making plans? On a Wednesday night?”
I can’t help the small exhale that might be a laugh.
My mother takes it as permission to continue.
“Honey,” she says, warmer now, “Reece is family. She’s been family since you two were… what, five?”
I swallow.
Family.
She’s not wrong.
And that’s the terrifying part.
Because if Reece and I mess this up—if I misstep—this doesn’t just affect two people.
It affects our families. The whole history. The whole web of people who love us.
Mom’s voice shifts again, casual and bright. “We will order some food, and I’m making dessert.”
“You haven’t even arrived,” I point out.
“I’m planning,” she says, proud. “And I’m stopping at the store. And I want to see your kitchen, because I suspect you’ve been living like a bachelor.”
“I make food,” I defend.
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” she says, unconvincingly. “Tell Reece not to work too hard—actually don’t tell her, I’ll tell her through text. Better yet, I’ll tell her in person tomorrow.”
My spine goes a fraction straighter.
“You text her?”
“Of course,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Because Reece is currently avoiding her own feelings like it’s a sport, and a surprise dinner with both sets of parents is basically an emotional ambush.
But I can’t say that.
So I say the only thing I can.
“Okay,” I manage.
My mother makes a happy sound. “This is going to be so fun.”
Behind her words, I hear my father’s voice in the background—muffled, but clear enough:
“Tell him we’re bringing the good coffee.”
Mom laughs. “Your father says we’re bringing the good coffee.”
“Tell Dad thanks,” I say, automatically.
“He can hear you,” she says. “We’re on speaker.”
I pause. “Hi, Dad.”
My father’s voice comes in, warm and steady. “Son.”
There’s affection in it, uncomplicated. My chest tightens.
“See you tomorrow,” he says simply.
“Yeah,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”
Mom returns, bright again. “Okay! I’ll let you go. I know you’re busy. But—tomorrow at three. Dinner tomorrow night. Don’t try to escape.”
“I wasn’t going to escape,” I say.
My mother laughs like she doesn’t believe me. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” I reply.
“Bye!” she sings, and the call ends.
The quiet that follows is immediate.
My office is still.
Outside is still.
My screen is still blinking at me like it’s disappointed I’m not working.
I set my phone down slowly and stare at it like it might bite.
Tomorrow at three.
My parents.
Reece’s parents.