Addison
Monday nearly swallowed me whole.
From the moment I woke up, the day was constant movement without pause. I barely stopped long enough to drink water. Sometime around two in the afternoon I realized I hadn’t eaten and shoved a granola bar into my bag for later, though later never actually came.
I hated how little I had texted Sawyer. She hadn’t said anything about it, but every buzz in my pocket came with that sharp, instinctive hope that it might be her. Every time it wasn’t, I felt a little disappointed. Work didn’t care about ache, and bridesmaids definitely didn’t either.
By evening I was already exhausted, and I still had to pivot out of work mode and into daughter mode.
Sunday dinner had been moved to Monday because of a gala my mom couldn’t reschedule, which meant dressing up again, smoothing myself out again, and driving to my parents’ house with my shoulders already tight from the day.
Dinner was fine the way it always was. My parents lived in the same house I’d grown up in, a large colonial tucked into a quiet neighborhood where every lawn looked professionally maintained. The porch light was already on when I pulled into the driveway.
Mom opened the door before I even knocked.
“There you are,” she said, kissing my cheek. “We’re waiting on you.”
I glanced at the clock in the foyer. “It is literally seven on the dot.”
“Exactly.”
I smiled despite myself and followed her toward the dining room.
Dad was already seated with a glass of wine, scrolling through his phone when I walked in.
“Hey, kid.”
“Hi, Dad.”
Dinner started the way it always did. Work first.
“How many showings today?” Dad asked.
“Five.”
He whistled. “That’s a lot.”
“It felt like a lot.”
Mom passed me the roasted vegetables. “The market is still good, though?”
“Busy, but good.”
The conversation stayed familiar for a while. Real estate. A neighbor selling their house. Some cousin I barely remembered getting engaged.
“Speaking of engagements,” Mom said, “did Lilly finalize the florist?”
“Yeah. A few weeks ago.” I said.
“What flowers did she choose?”
“I don’t know. Something dusty blue and mauve?”
Mom shook her head. “When it’s your turn, I’m hiring someone to force you to care about flowers.”
Normally, the comment wouldn’t have bothered me.
But a few months ago, I had known exactly what my future was supposed to look like.
A husband. Marriage. A house. Everything neatly planned.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
“Addison?”
I blinked and found Mom watching me.
“Sorry. Long day.” I said.
“You look tired.” Mom told me.
“I am.”
Dad pointed his fork at me. “When was the last time you took a day off?”
I groaned. “Not this again.”
“I’m serious.”
“I took Sunday off.” I defended.
Mom snorted. “You answered emails all day.”
I shook my head. “That’s not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point.” Mom argued.
I rolled my eyes, but I smiled.
The conversation moved on. Mom talked about a gala. Dad complained about traffic. I nodded when I was supposed to, but my mind kept drifting to Sawyer.
Her couch. Her motorcycle. The way she looked at me without expecting me to be anyone else.
By the time dessert arrived, I was ready to leave. Not because dinner had been bad. I mean it wasn’t great, but…There was just somewhere else I wanted to be.
I made it home, answered a few emails I should have ignored, and fell asleep with a text from Sawyer waiting on my screen.
* * *
Tuesday wasn’t much better.
Meetings were stacked back-to-back, my assistant called in sick, and I spent most of the day putting out fires that weren’t technically mine.
Sawyer and I texted when we could, short messages squeezed between appointments and conference calls, but by the time I got home that night I was too tired to do much more than shower and fall into bed.
By Wednesday morning, the date had been sitting in the back of my mind for nearly two days.
At eight o’clock I was dressed for work in a high-waisted skirt and silk blouse with an iced coffee sweating in my hand. My calendar was already packed, but Sawyer and I still managed to text through the morning. The messages were light and easy, small touches that made the day feel connected.
Sawyer: Hope your morning’s treating you well. You counting down the hours yet?
Me: Don’t make fun of me but… I might already have an outfit laid out.
Sawyer: Beautiful and prepared. Dangerous combo.
I tucked my phone back into my bag with a grin I couldn’t quite hide. The workday flew by faster than expected, though my focus was questionable by the late afternoon.
I had blocked my calendar and warned my assistant that I wasn’t taking calls after five-thirty, but telling myself not to obsess about the evening turned out to be pointless.
At exactly 5:30 I closed my laptop and stood up, smoothing my blouse like the gesture might steady the nervous excitement running through me. I was home by 5:45 and stepping into the shower by six.
My makeup stayed soft but intentional, warm bronze shadow and mascara thick enough to matter, my lips tinted just enough to look deliberate without screaming nerves.
Tight black jeans and a champagne-toned cropped shirt felt right once I pulled them on, and for once I didn’t second-guess the outfit before grabbing my leather jacket.
At 6:25 the low rumble of a motorcycle rolled down the street outside. The sound slid under my skin in a way that felt electric, and I grabbed my bag before stepping outside. Sawyer leaned casually against her bike with her helmet tucked under one arm and her hair pulled back loosely.
She wore black boots, fitted jeans, and a gray T-shirt beneath an open jacket. Somehow she always looked like she’d thrown something on without trying and still gotten it right.
When she saw me, her face lit up with a slow genuine smile. “Hey, beautiful.”
“You look fucking gorgeous.”
She handed me the helmet and pecked my lips. I wanted more, but we got on the bike and headed off. She wouldn’t tell me where we were going.
The paint-and-sip studio sat inside a converted warehouse with fairy lights strung across the ceiling and walls splattered with color from previous classes.
“I’m going to be so bad at this,” I whispered as we found our seats after hitting the bar. Wine for me. Whiskey for Sawyer.
“That’s the point,” Sawyer murmured with an amused smile.
“You just want to watch me flail.”
“I want to see how you handle not being perfect,” she said lightly.
I narrowed my eyes at her but smiled anyway.
As the class started, I let go more than I expected. I laughed when my canvas turned sideways and drank more wine than I planned while Sawyer leaned back in her chair, watching me with an amused expression that only made it worse.
“You’re gorgeous when you let go,” Sawyer said quietly at one point, and something about the way she said it made me believe her.
After the class ended, Sawyer fastened my helmet with careful movements that let her fingers brush lightly along my jaw. Our eyes met for a second before she swung onto the bike, and the ride through the city felt cooler and more intimate than the one there.
Buildings blurred past while the wind wrapped around us. Eventually, she pulled into a small courtyard strung with lights, where food trucks lined the edges and soft music drifted through the air.
“This is adorable,” I said as we climbed off the bike.
“This is what comes next,” Sawyer replied.
We ordered food and sat at a small table while talking easily. Our fingers brushed occasionally and neither of us pulled away.
“You know,” Sawyer said as she unwrapped her sandwich, “you were way more fun at that paint class than I expected.”
I laughed. “That’s because I gave up.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t usually give up.”
“I know.”
I looked at her across the table. “Was it that obvious?”
“A little.”
I shook my head. “I hate being bad at things.”
Sawyer smiled softly. “Everybody’s bad at things.”
“Not everybody builds metal sculptures for fun.”
She laughed at that. “Trust me, I’ve made some terrible ones.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You should.”
The smile lingered on her face for a moment before it softened. “Honestly, that’s part of why I like welding.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “Things make sense in the shop. If I mess something up, I can fix it. If I need to start over, I start over.”
I watched her for a moment. “Where did you learn to weld?”
Something shifted in her expression, not sadness exactly, but something quieter. “My Poppa taught me.” She glanced down at the table before continuing. “After my sister died, I was kind of a mess.”
My chest tightened.
“Sawyer…”
She shrugged lightly. “I was fifteen. She was seventeen. Everything felt different after that.”
The courtyard noise seemed to fade into the background while I listened.
“My parents were grieving too. Nobody really knew what to do with any of it.” “My mom hit the bottle hard, my dad just kind of checked out.” She smiled faintly. “Poppa started taking me to the shop after school. He’d hand me a helmet and put me to work.”
“That probably saved you.”
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I know it did.”
For a moment neither of us spoke. Then Sawyer reached across the table and took my hand. “You know,” she said, running her thumb lightly across my knuckles, “you don’t have to have everything figured out with me.”
I looked down at our hands before meeting her eyes again. “I know.”
“No, I mean it. You don’t have to know where this is going. You don’t have to have all the answers.”
Something inside me loosened. “I’m trying.”
Her smile softened. “I know you are.”
By the time the evening settled into quiet conversation and shared smiles, I realized I wasn’t balancing between two worlds or pretending to be someone else. I was simply exactly where I was supposed to be.
* * *