Chapter 18 Big Fan Of Momentum
Eighteen
Big Fan Of Momentum
Nora
I keep telling myself I did the right thing by putting space between me and Miles.
Distance is healthy and smart. Distance is how you stop relationships before they turn into something you can’t control.
Except there’s that saying—something about absence makes you crave the kiss even more.
Okay, not exactly the same, but close enough.
The further I pull back, the louder the kiss gets in my head.
I go to bed thinking about it, replaying the warmth of his lips and the way my body leaned into him, and I wake up with it still there, as if my brain queued him up overnight just to be cruel.
When Miles returned to town from his work trip, he texted me.
I stared at his name on my screen for a full minute before sending a polite message back because I didn’t know what else to say without unraveling the very distance I’d been trying to build.
But Miles being Miles, he didn’t keep it surface-level for long.
He asked how I was and how Mom was doing as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to still care.
Then the messages kept coming over the month—little check-ins, dating questions like I’m still his unofficial coach.
A small, traitorous part of me is afraid to open OneDate analytics in case I see he’s going on more dates.
Ignorance is bliss, I guess. He even asked if we could get together for more “dating lessons,” and every time I dodged him with work excuses, app updates, or Mom emergencies.
I know it makes me a terrible person. But keeping my distance is the only way to keep my heart from doing something reckless.
Now I lie in bed watching the blinking red colon on my alarm clock mark each passing second for the last thirty minutes instead of sleeping. If my brain insists on being awake, I might as well put it to work on something that can’t kiss me senseless and then haunt my dreams.
OneDate.
I roll out of bed and drop into my desk chair. With a shake of the mouse, I wake up the computer and log into the admin panel. The dashboard loads… slowly, but it loads. Progress. Until error logs scroll down the screen like a crime scene report.
Request queue overload.
Memory error.
Auto-scaling failure.
“Okay,” I mutter, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s do this.”
For the next two hours, I disappear into code.
I isolate the bottleneck in the matchmaking algorithm, reroute traffic through a temporary load balancer, and increase server capacity just enough to keep everything from catching fire again.
I patch the memory leak, optimize the database calls, and refresh the page.
Green. Everything is green.
I lean back in my chair and let out a slow breath—but the relief barely has time to settle before my phone chimes with a notification. I glance at the screen. An email.
SUBJECT: We’d love to feature OneDate
I frown and click it open. It’s from a mid-sized lifestyle podcast—one I’ve actually heard of.
They cover health, fashion, travel, relationships, and career advice.
The best part? They actively promote women-owned businesses.
And they want to spotlight the app—its premise, its origin story, its creator. Me.
A podcast. A real one. With listeners. The kind that could turn OneDate into a household name overnight. My pulse spikes.
“This could be huge,” I whisper, half thrilled, half terrified.
I spring out of my chair and pace the apartment, wrapping an arm around myself while the other taps my chin.
Energy ricochets through me. My steps quicken as my thoughts trip over themselves trying to keep up.
Then the excitement crashes, and I freeze.
What if my voice shakes? What if I ramble?
What if I say the wrong thing and ruin everything?
I need to tell someone. Miles’s name surfaces instantly.
I can already see his reaction—the slow smile, the quiet pride lighting his eyes, the way he’d say “That’s incredible” like a fact, not just encouragement.
I grab my phone, my thumb hovering over his name, then I toss it onto the couch as if it’s on fire.
We’re not… that. We’re not friends who call each other with big milestones.
We’re not people who share wins and panic in equal measure.
We’re acquaintances. Fake dates. Two people who kissed twice and called it practice.
Calling him would defeat the whole distance thing.
I check the time—10:30. Knowing Asher, Eve’s been up for the past five hours already.
Her place is only ten minutes away, and she’s exactly the kind of person who will not only scream excitedly but tell me if I’m catastrophizing.
I quickly change and make myself somewhat human before I grab my keys and bolt out the door.
“Nora!” She pushes the door the rest of the way open, shifting Asher higher on her hip, “What’s that look for? It’s as if your brain is sprinting and the rest of you can’t keep up.”
“I might be accidentally famous,” I blurt, pushing past her and scooping Asher into my arms as I go.
She shuts the door behind me. “I’m sorry—what?”
“A podcast.” I pace her living room while bouncing Asher in my arms. “A real one. They want me on their show to talk about OneDate.” I coo into Asher’s belly, earning me a giggle.
Eve freezes. Then her face splits into the biggest grin. “NORA!”
“I know,” I say, laughing and panicking at the same time. “This could be huge. Or terrible. Or both simultaneously.”
She grabs my shoulders and turns me to face her. “This is amazing.”
My throat tightens. “You really think so?”
“Of course it’s amazing! A podcast feature is huge!”
“I needed to tell someone,” I admit. “Also, I wanted baby snuggles.” I tickle Asher’s belly again. “Yes, I did.” Finally, I sink onto the couch and let myself breathe. “I almost called Miles.”
Eve’s eyebrow lifts. “Almost?”
“Don’t,” I warn.
She smirks. “Noted.”
After hanging out until Asher goes down for his nap, I head to my car and call Mom. She answers on the second ring.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hey. Are you busy?”
“For you? Never. What’s going on?”
My grin returns, nerves fluttering again. “Okay, so… you know my app OneDate?”
“The one you don’t sleep because of?”
“That’s the one.” I run a finger along the steering wheel. “I got an email this morning. A podcast wants me on their show to talk about it.”
There’s a pause. Then—“Oh my god,” she says softly.
“Is that a good oh my god or a concerning one?”
“That’s a very good oh my god. Nora, that’s amazing news.”
Tears prick at the back of my eyes, completely uninvited. “You really think so?”
“I know so. You’ve worked so hard for this. I’m so proud of you.”
Her words hit hard, and I have to press my fingers to my eyes, laughing through the sudden sting. “I’m excited,” I admit. “And terrified.”
“That’s how you know it matters. You’re going to do great. When is it?”
“I don’t know yet. I replied to the email to lock in a date.”
She chuckles softly. “Just remember—be you.”
I smile. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too.”
After I hang up, I sit there for a moment, the phone still warm in my hand, my head buzzing with too many emotions to name. I don’t know where this leads, but for the first time, the fear edges into excitement—and that feels like the start of something big.
I start the engine and pull away from the curb.
Green street signs blur past, then one makes me ease off the gas.
Miles’s house is only a few blocks away.
I could—hypothetically—swing by. Just say hi.
Mention the podcast in a totally casual, I-haven’t-been-thinking-of-you way.
At the next intersection, I could turn left and go home.
Or keep going straight. I slow at the stop sign but don’t flip on my blinker.
This is a bad idea or a perfectly normal idea.
It’s still up for debate. As I roll forward, my heart kicks up a notch.
I’m not even sure what I’m hoping for: that his driveway’s empty?
That he’s home? As I approach his house, I see him in the driveway, hauling equipment from the garage to the back of his SUV.
A hard case I recognize from drone day in one hand, a small cooler in the other.
Dark khakis. A zip-up hoodie with the sleeves shoved to his elbows.
Shit. He’s leaving. That’s fine. Good, actually.
I shouldn’t interrupt him. This was a stupid idea anyway.
There’s no reason to stop—no reason to turn this into something it isn’t.
We are not the kind of people who casually swing by each other’s houses to share career milestones.
Uncertainty settles heavy in my gut. We’re—
He turns around. Our gazes meet.
Time does that awful slow-motion thing as Miles lifts a hand and waves.
Just a normal, friendly wave. And I panic.
Full-body, no-thoughts panic. I mash the gas and rocket past his driveway as if I’ve just robbed a bank, staring straight ahead while absolutely still watching him in my peripheral vision. A horn blares.
“Shit!” I yelp, swerving back into my lane just in time to avoid a head-on collision.
I slam on the brakes, heart pounding so hard it hurts.
I sit there gripping the steering wheel, heart thumping wildly.
He saw me. He waved. I almost caused an accident.
There’s no version of this where I pretend it didn’t happen. “Okay,” I mutter. “We’re doing this.”
Before I can chicken out, I throw the car into reverse and back up until I’m parked at the curb beside his driveway.
My hands shake while my pulse lodges in my throat.
I kill the engine and sit there for a beat, then force myself to open the door.
I step out of the car and immediately wish I could rewind the last five minutes.