Chapter 4
Into the Quiet
Reed
I sat in silence, the hum of the refrigerator and the clatter of the ice maker filling the room, as I stared at my phone. What the hell was I doing?
Coffee had been good. Too good. I couldn't stop replaying it—the way Maliyah had smiled when I'd walked in, how her whole face had lit up talking about her kids.
The playful tone when she'd teased me about being a detective.
How natural it had felt, like we'd been doing this for years instead of an hour over lattes and pastries.
My apartment felt too quiet suddenly. For some reason tonight seemed worse than usual. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and settled on the couch, flipping through channels without really seeing anything, finally settling on an old Patriots game.
The smart thing would be to keep this professional.
Maliyah had kids—two of them—and from what I'd gathered from the background I'd quietly run when investigating the issues around her brother-in-law's ex-wife, she'd had enough shit happen in her life that she didn't need a bachelor like me coming in and messing things up any further.
Because that's me. I'm not looking to settle down. I had enough of commitment after shit broke down with Sara and she hightailed it all of eight months ago.
"You're great at the fun parts, Reed," she'd said while packing her books into boxes. "But the moment things get real, the moment I need you to actually be present for something difficult, you check out. I can't build a life with someone who isn't interested in building something lasting with me."
She hadn't been wrong. When her father had her heart attack, I didn't handle it well.
I'd found excuses to work late instead of hanging out at the parents house with her after he was released home.
When she'd started talking about moving in together, I'd agreed mainly because it felt like I had to.
But then, she started throwing hints around about getting engaged.
Nope. I'd started picking fights about stupid things and disappearing.
Doing everything I could to avoid her instead of dealing with the issues head on.
My phone buzzed. John's name lit up the screen.
I considered not answering. But John was persistent, and ignoring him would only make him more curious.
"Yeah?"
"So." John's voice came through way too cheerful. "Guy! Where have you been? Something's up. Spill."
"Nothing to spill."
"Morrison. I've known you for almost our entire lives. You're a terrible liar."
I took a long pull from my beer. "I got coffee with someone. No big deal."
"Coffee." John's tone said he wasn't buying it. "No shit? With who?"
"Just someone I met through work."
"Through work." A pause. "Wait. Is this that chick you talked about when we were in the field? The one from the shelter who had that sister—was her name Felicity? You know, the one who had all that shit go down with the husband's ex! Is that who you're talking about?"
Shit. John was too good at this.
"Maybe."
John let out a low whistle. "Maliyah, right? Reed, man, she's—"
"I know what she is." I cut him off. "Which is why this was just coffee. Just keeping things friendly."
"Right. Friendly. That's why you're sitting alone in your apartment tonight definitely drinking beer and overthinking."
"I'm not overthinking."
"You're absolutely overthinking." I could hear the grin in his voice. "So how'd it go? This 'friendly' coffee?"
I found myself talking despite my better judgment. Told him about the café, about how easy the conversation had been, how she'd talked about her kids with this mix of exhaustion and pride that made my chest ache.
"She sounds great," John said when I finished.
"She is."
"So what's the problem?"
"There's no problem."
"Reed." John's voice shifted, became more serious. "We've been partners for a decade, and best friends for more years that I can count before even that. I watched what happened with Sara. I watched you sabotage that entire relationship because you got scared."
"I didn't—"
"You did. And you know you did." He paused. "Look, I'm not trying to give you shit. I'm trying to make sure you don't do the same thing again."
I stared at the ceiling, the beer going warm in my hand. "What if I can't help it?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if this is just who I am? The guy who can't handle anything real?"
"So, you're scared."
"No!" I took another drink, dropping my head back and sighing. "Yeah."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
That was the question, wasn't it? I thought about the way she'd looked at me across the table this morning, the careful hope in her eyes when I'd said I wanted to see her again.
"I don't know."
"Well, here's what I know," John said. "You're going to call her again. Probably tomorrow. Because despite all your commitment issues and self-sabotaging bullshit, you actually like this woman. And it's at least good that you admit it terrifies you."
He wasn't wrong.
"The question is," John continued, "how do you stop yourself from running this time? And instead try something different?"
After we hung up, I sat in the dark living room, an old Patriots game playing on mute, beer long since gone flat.
John's words circled in my head. Are you going to run like you always do?
I thought about Sara. How she'd looked at me when she left. She was resigned. Like she'd known for a long time that it was coming.
I thought about Maliyah this morning, the way her fingers had drummed on the table when she was nervous. How she'd opened up just enough to let me see the edges of her past. How she'd smiled when I'd said I wanted to see her again, even though I could see the caution in her eyes.
She'd been hurt before. I could see it in the careful way she held herself, the way she'd mentioned "getting away" and needing the shelter. Someone had made her feel unsafe, and she'd rebuilt her entire life from that.
And here I was, a guy with a proven track record of bailing when things got real, thinking about asking her out again.
The smart thing would be to keep my distance. To keep things professional. To not risk hurting someone who'd already been through enough.
But sitting there in my too-quiet apartment, I realized something: I didn't want to do the smart thing. I didn't want to keep my distance.
I wanted to see her again. Wanted to hear more about her kids, learn what made her laugh, know what she read before bed. Wanted to see if this thing between us could be something.
And that scared me more than anything.
Because John was right—I was absolutely going to call her again. I was sure of it at this point.
A few days went by before I realized I still hadn’t called Maliyah.
I’d been called into an armed robbery that same night.
While we’d made our arrests, John and I rolled right into another case and then another.
Today, I was knee-deep in the most mundane shit the job had to offer.
A storage unit burglary out in Dot—some kid broke into his uncle's unit looking for vintage baseball cards to sell, found nothing but Christmas decorations and old tax returns.
The uncle wanted to press charges. The kid was seventeen and crying in the interview room.
John and I spent two hours on paperwork on a case that would probably die with the Magistrate.
"This is what we went to the academy for," John muttered, signing his name for the third time on the same form. "To referee family drama over dusty boxes of ornaments."
"Hey, I’ll take that ceramic Santa over the shit storm we saw in the last few days," I deadpanned.
"I’ll take the shit storm, man. The kid literally called it 'creepy grandpa Santa' in his statement.
Do you see this shit?" His shoulders shook as he tossed the statement back on the desk, the paper landing with a soft slap against the worn surface.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he ran a hand across his stubbled jaw, still chuckling under his breath.
My shoulders shook as I let out a snort, the tension in my neck finally releasing. "Fuck man, a Santa with teeth and eyes that follow you just aint right.
We wrapped up around four, both of us grateful to escape the fluorescent lights of the station. John grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, then stopped, studying me with that look he got when he was about to stick his nose where it didn't belong.
"So," he said. "You call her yet?"
"Who?"
"Don't start with that shit again." He crossed his arms. "Maliyah. Your coffee date. The one you've been moping about for three days."
"I haven't been moping."
"You literally sighed four times the other day while checking your watch. Four times, Reed. I counted."
"I was tired, man."
"Bullshit." John leaned against the desk. "You gonna call her or just keep sighing your way through the next three days too?"
I grabbed my own jacket, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know, John. Maybe coffee was enough. Maybe I should just leave it there."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because it's complicated. She's got kids, a whole life. I'm not—" I stopped, shook my head. "I'm not that guy."
"What guy?"
"The family guy. The committed relationship guy. You know this about me."
John was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know what I think?"
"That you should mind your own business and let me live my life?"
"I think you're already in this whether you admit it or not. And the longer you wait, the weirder it gets." He grabbed his keys. "Call her. Or don't. But stop torturing yourself either way."
He headed for the door, then paused. "Come on, man. Sarah said she wants to grab a drink. Let’s go meet her, yeah?"
"Yeah, fine. Whatever."
"Good. I’m desperate to spend more time with you while you’re brooding. Makes for good entertainment."
"Asshole."
But I was still following him out the door. I could go for a drink.