Gage
I’m standing in my kitchen holding a dish towel like it’s a shield, which is ridiculous because no one is attacking me.
Unless you count nostalgia, casseroles, and four parents with the combined emotional perception of a search-and-rescue team.
The kitchen is still warm from dinner—over-warm, honestly. The kind of heat that makes you want to loosen your collar even if you’re not wearing one. The kind of warmth that lingers in the walls after laughter has passed through it.
Voices overlap in the hallway, coats rustling, the scrape of boots on the mat. The last stretch of the night—the part where people talk louder, hug longer, and pretend they aren’t tired because saying goodbye is its own kind of effort.
And in the spaces between the sound, the silence gets loud enough to replay the kiss all over again.
Not the details.
The feeling.
The moment my whole life shifted and then I had to sit at a table and pass the bread like nothing happened.
I wipe a clean counter that doesn’t need wiping because my hands need somewhere to go.
Because if my hands are busy, maybe my mind will stop doing that thing where it takes one memory and turns it into a thousand questions.
It doesn’t work.
I set the dish towel down and step out of the kitchen.
The foyer is crowded the way it always gets when people leave—a cluster of coats and purses and humans trying to organize themselves.
Linda is already putting her gloves on, her cheeks a little pink from the warmth inside. Patrick is tugging his hat down like he’s preparing for a polar expedition and not a twenty-step walk.
My mom is stationed by the coat hooks like a traffic officer.
My dad stands a little to the side, hands in his pockets, watching everything like he’s letting the scene play out because he’s seen it before. Not this exact one, but this kind of family chaos—this kind of love that fills a space until no one can breathe without bumping into it.
Reece is by the door.
Of course she is.
She’s always near the exit when she’s overwhelmed. It’s not obvious if you don’t know her. It’s just… a pattern. She positions herself where she can leave without making it a big thing.
Her coat is on. Her scarf is wrapped high. Her hair is tucked behind her ear like she’s trying to keep herself contained.
When she looks up and sees me, her eyes shift—softening for half a beat before she catches herself.
A flicker.
A crack.
Then she smooths it back into composure.
My mom is still talking. “Text when you get home.”
Linda laughs again. “Susan—”
“I’m serious,” my mom says, pointing her finger at Linda like it’s an official statement. “It’s icy. And I will not have anyone slipping in my presence.”
Patrick chuckles. “Your presence is the safest thing on this street.”
“That’s correct,” my mom agrees easily.
Then she turns and sees me and her face brightens again, like she’s got another mission.
“And you,” she says, pointing at me. “Don’t clean tonight. Go to bed like a normal person.”
I open my mouth to argue.
My dad speaks first, mild and steady. “He won’t.”
My mom nods like she already knew. “Right. Then at least pretend.”
I nod once. “Yes, ma’am.”
Reece’s mouth twitches slightly at that. Like she wants to smile and refuses.
Linda hugs my mom again—longer this time. “We’re so glad we’re here,” she says softly.
My mom’s voice softens too, the theatrical edge dropping. “Me too.”
Patrick pats my dad’s shoulder, then shakes my hand.
“You did good tonight,” Patrick says.
It’s simple. It could mean dinner. Hosting.
It feels like something else.
I swallow. “Thanks.”
Then Patrick opens the door and cold air rolls in, crisp and clean, cutting through the warmth like a reset.
This catapults Reece to where I’m standing, like the cold reminds her to say goodbye.
She looks up at me—chin lifted, eyes steady in that way she does when she’s trying to keep herself from shaking.
“Goodnight,” she says.
The word is normal.
Her voice is not.
There’s something careful about it. Something that says: we’re behaving.
I keep my tone easy. “Goodnight.”
Reece hesitates, like she’s deciding whether to step forward or keep the distance.
Then she steps in anyway, closes the space, and wraps her arms around me in a quick hug.
Not lingering. Not dramatic.
Just… Reece.
But her body goes still against mine for one second too long.
And my brain lights up with the memory of her mouth on mine and the way she leaned into the kiss like she’d been waiting for it.
I don’t tighten my arms. I don’t pull her closer.
I keep it safe. Light.
She pulls back first.
Her eyes flick up, and for half a beat she looks like she might say something.
Anything.
Then she swallows it.
“See you tomorrow,” she says instead—too bright, too practiced.
Work-coded.
Like she’s reminding herself where we’re going.
“Yeah,” I reply. “See you tomorrow.”
She nods once like that settles it.
Behind her, Mom looks like she might actually combust—one hand pressed to her heart, h er whole face lit up in the kind of mom-pride that’s one squeal away from waking the neighborhood with frantic excitement as she beams at me.
Then Reece turns, gives my mom a quick hug goodbye, and follows her parents out.
They step out together, still laughing quietly.
My mom’s voice near the front door—bright, theatrical, and very sure of herself.
“Okay, everybody. Get home safe.”
Linda laughs. “Susan, we’re going next door.”
“There’s still travel involved,” my mom insists.
Patrick’s voice follows, amused. “We’ll buckle up for safety.”
My dad’s calm voice adds, “One foot in front of the other, Patrick. No sudden lane changes.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
The dads are in comedian mode.
The moms are in host mode.
And I’m in… whatever mode this is where my heart keeps thumping like it’s trying to tell my brain to catch up.
Then I hear Reece’s laugh.
It’s small. Probably polite. Maybe a little strained. But it’s hers.
And that sound moves through me like a hand pressed to my chest.
The house exhales the moment the door shuts.
Quiet spills back into the rooms like water finding its level.
In the living room, I hear my mother’s voice drifting from the stairs—something about wanting “one more glass of water” even though she has already had three. My dad murmurs something calming in return.
They’re heading upstairs to sleep. Familiar, comfortable in a way I envy.
I stand in the foyer for a second with my hand on the doorframe, like I’m bracing against the absence.
Because Reece leaving shouldn’t feel like anything.
She’s next door. She’s ten feet away. She’s a porch light away.
But it feels like something.
It feels like a gap.
Like I can still feel her presence in the air, and now it’s gone.
I walk back into the kitchen and the warmth there feels wrong now. The dishes are stacked. The counters are mostly clean. The smell of dessert lingers in a sweet, faint way.
I pick up a plate and rinse it, then stop because my mom told me not to clean and because cleaning is not the point.
I’m not doing this because the kitchen needs it.
I’m doing it because my mind is stuck on one thought:
Now what?
The dinner blurred everything and clarified everything at the same time.
All of us under one roof again. The moms cooking like no time passed. The dads laughing over old stories.
The fort picture. The prom story. The way everyone kept saying “you two” like it was a given.
And Reece… sitting there, trying to smile through it, trying to be okay.
I saw it. The flinch when “forever” was said casually. The way she blinked too fast. The way she went still for a beat like she’d been hit with something she didn’t ask to remember.
I also saw the other thing.
The way her shoulders dropped when she looked at me across the room.
The way her laugh came easier when she forgot to be careful.
The way her hand brushed mine near the dessert, and neither of us moved away fast enough.
The table was full of witnesses.
And still—there were moments where it felt like it was just us.
We needed a quiet moment.
We didn’t get one.
And now she’s next door, and I’m in my kitchen, staring at a dish towel like it’s going to tell me what to do.
My phone is on the counter.
I look at it.
I can make a plan for a building emergency in fifteen seconds flat, but texting Reece feels like stepping onto thin ice with my heart in my hands.
I pick up my phone anyway.
Open our thread.
The last message from her is professional. About meeting clients locally. Notes to send. Practical. Clean.
I type.
Pause.
Delete.
Type again.
Because everything I actually want to say feels too much.
Are you okay?
I miss you.
I’m sorry if I scared you.
Please don’t step back.
Please don’t make this a mistake.
Please let me choose you as my forever.
None of that is safe.
So I choose the truth that fits inside a small message.
Just making sure you’re ok?
I stare at it.
Okay is a loaded word.
It always has been with her.
Okay means: I’m managing.
Okay means: don’t look too close.
Okay means: I’m fine—please don’t make me explain.
But it’s also the only way I know how to ask without cornering her.
I hit send.
Immediately my chest tightens, because now the message exists in the world and I can’t pull it back.
I type the second line before I can overthink myself into silence.
We’ll talk tomorrow. On the ride to the station.
Not a demand.
Not a confrontation.
A calm promise.
Because if I don’t anchor it—if I don’t make it real—this will keep slipping into the category Reece can control: pretend it didn’t happen.
I hit send.
Then I set the phone down like it’s hot.
And for a second I just stand there in my kitchen, listening to the old house settle around me—pipes shifting, wood creaking, the faint hum of the heater.
My parents’ footsteps move overhead. The sound is comforting.
The house is full again.
And still, I’ve never felt more aware of what’s missing.
I go to the front window.
I don’t know what she’s doing right now.