Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Alyssa
It’s almost midnight. And I can’t quite wrap my head around that.
I don’t stay out late on weekdays. I don’t take spontaneous dinner breaks with near-strangers. I don’t wander home through damp Seattle streets, full of greasy fries and my head full of someone else’s voice.
But tonight, all of that happened.
The walk back to my apartment isn’t long. That’s part of why I said yes in the first place. A burger, a shake, and the promise that I’d be home within the hour. Except hours passed. And to be honest, I don’t want them back.
The rain has stopped, but the streets still shimmer beneath the orange cast of the streetlights. Water beads along the hoods of parked cars and storefront awnings. The air smells like wet pavement and cigarette smoke, with the faintest trace of night jasmine from someone’s windowsill pot.
The smell of espresso drifts from the 24-hour café on the corner—the one that still plays cassette tapes. A low hum of sound spills into the street, old songs warping slightly through the speakers. My heels click quietly against the sidewalk, but I don’t rush. Neither does he.
Rafe walks beside me with his hands shoved in the pockets of his worn jacket, his gaze on the pavement like it holds something important.
Every now and then, I glance at him. At the profile I know I shouldn’t recognize.
At the way his lips press together when he’s thinking.
The air between us is filled with things we’re not ready to say yet. It’s just too much in one night.
Our conversation from earlier plays on repeat in my head.
He spoke about his grandfather like he was still in the room.
Every note of music he played still carried that man’s breath.
The one who taught him how to hold a guitar, how to listen instead of just hear.
There was love in those memories—and a sadness he didn’t bother hiding, like he knew I’d see it anyway.
Then he asked more about my father. It was strange because no one ever asks about him or my siblings. Most days, I pretend the distance is just geography. But Rafe—he went there without flinching.
“You should search for your mother and ask her why,” he said, soft but certain. “Why did she leave you, too? You deserve to know it wasn’t about you. That it never was.”
I’d stared down at my milkshake, throat thick, unsure if I wanted to cry or throw it in his lap for daring to be that honest. No one talks to me like that. No one dares to see through the polished lines and color-coded schedules.
That’s when he told me he wished he’d talked to his father. Really talked. Asked the questions that might’ve peeled back some of the damage, maybe even given him a piece of peace.
But now it’s too late.
He ran out of time, and there’s no one left in his family who can explain what happened back then. No family dinners to unearth lost answers. Not even letters hidden in drawers. Just silence and bad memories stitched together with guesses.
At least he has his friends. He called them brothers without hesitation, like family wasn’t something you’re born into but something you fight to keep.
And then there’s the baby—his nephew—who, even at just a few months old, seems to keep him tethered to the good in the world.
He talks about that kid like he’s proof that not everything is broken.
There’s still a future worth wishing for.
We walk side by side, our footsteps soft on damp pavement. The city’s quieted down to a murmur, and the orange haze of streetlights makes everything feel suspended—like we’re between something that’s ending and something that hasn’t started yet.
Then Rafe speaks. “If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”
I glance over. He’s watching the sidewalk like it might offer up the answer itself. But there’s a shift in his voice—looser, lighter. Like he’s letting himself imagine for the first time in a while.
“Anywhere?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. “I don’t think I’ve got that luxury. My schedule’s booked at least through next year.”
He scoffs gently. “Pretend there’s no gala. No vendors. No timelines. Just a few days where you don’t have to juggle twenty plates and answer phone calls during meals.”
I pause, letting the fantasy fill the air between us. Warmth. Sun. Air that doesn’t cling to your skin like regret. No pagers buzzing. No voicemails stacking up. No one needing anything from me.
“Somewhere tropical,” I murmur. “With an ocean. And no one leaving messages asking where I am or why I haven’t called back.”
He chuckles, soft and real. “Good choice. I’d take you, you know. If you weren’t already booked through the next millennium.”
I laugh, and it comes out lighter than I feel. “It’s ironic that this millennium just started.”
“Exactly. And your schedule’s already full.”
The truth of it sinks beneath my ribs. I laugh again, but it stutters in my chest. Because he’s right. My calendar is crammed with everyone else’s dreams. Their milestones. Their magic.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped adding mine.
I stopped believing that it could happen to me.
We reach the stoop of my apartment building—the kind with too many buzzers, faded numbers, and one cracked step that’s been there since before I moved in. I pause, digging through my bag for my keys. They jingle like wind chimes at the bottom, loud against the hush of the night.
Rafe lingers a step behind, saying nothing. Just waiting—giving me space, as if he knows how rare that is.
I finally find the keys and hold them in my palm, my fingers wrapped around cold metal. And I don’t want to go inside. Not yet.
“Thanks for walking me,” I say, tracing invisible lines on the sidewalk with the tip of my shoe. “And the burger.”
“Thanks for letting me,” he says. “And keeping me company. I needed that.”
There’s a pause. The air between us shifts, like neither of us knows what to do with it. He takes a small breath, I do too, and for a moment it feels like something might happen if either of us moves even an inch. But neither of us does.
Our eyes meet.
It’s nothing and everything.
There’s no dramatic swell of music, no perfect line to wrap this up in a bow. Just the stillness of a moment where everything could tilt forward. Could fall.
But neither of us moves.
He doesn’t lean in. I don’t reach out. The air between us pulses with everything I’ve tried not to want. All the things I’ve told myself I don’t have time for. That I don’t deserve.
“Good night, Rafe,” I whisper, and it feels like saying goodbye to something that just started breathing.
He starts to reply—“No. It’s . . .”—then stops himself. Shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth like he almost said too much. “Good night, Aly. Thanks again. For tonight.”
I nod, fingers clumsy as I turn the key and push the door open. The warm air inside wraps around me, thick with the scent of old pipes and too many heaters kicking on at once. But it doesn’t touch the chill that creeps in the second I step away from him.
He stays right where he is. Doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t move. Just watches me with this look I can’t quite interpret—like he wants to say something else but won’t. Like if he does, it’ll undo whatever fragile thread we’ve barely begun weaving.
I hover at the threshold. The door halfway open behind me, my fingers still curled around the keys. I feel them slipping, feel the part of me that wants to stall. To stay outside. To keep talking. To find a reason for him to stay.
“Again . . . thanks for walking me,” I repeat. The words feel too small. Like I owe him more and don’t know how to give it.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head a fraction, the way people do when they’re memorizing something. When they know they won’t get to see it again for a while.
“Don’t forget the demo,” I add. “Tomorrow.”
“I won’t.” His voice is quiet but sure. “I’ll be here early.”
And then, just like that, he turns and walks into the night.
No looking back. No final word. Just a figure slipping into the dark, like this—whatever this is—was enough for now.
I step inside and let the door shut behind me. The click echoes too loudly in the stillness. I don’t move. Just stand there, palm pressed to the glass, watching the sidewalk he disappeared down, like it might give me something back.
It wasn’t a date.
We didn’t kiss.
Nothing happened.
So why does it feel like I’m already missing him?