Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Sam
Iunbutton the top button of my navy silk blouse, smooth the collar flat, and re-button it so it sits perfectly centered on the hanger. Then I do the same thing to the light blue one. I’ve been systematically rotating my closet by color gradient for twenty minutes.
It’s productive. And it keeps me from turning around to check my phone sitting on the bed behind me.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
I set down the cardigan and cross the room, pick up the phone. Two texts from Tom, both timestamped 2:47 PM.
My idea for tonight needed good weather. Could I get a rain check?
Sorry for the terrible pun.
I read both messages twice. Set the phone face-down. Wait.
I count to thirty in my head, fingers drumming against the wood surface. Pick up the phone again. No follow-up text. No "How about tomorrow instead?" No "Want to come over and watch something?"
Nothing.
I open the message thread and type: Want to just stay in and watch something?
Then I highlight it, character by character, and delete it.
If he wanted to see me tonight, he'd suggest something. He knows how.
No problem. Rain check it is.
His reply comes fast.
Thanks. Talk soon.
I stare at the screen. Talk soon. Not "tomorrow" or "this week" or "I'll call you later." Just talk soon.
I set the phone back on the dresser and return to the closet.
I move three sweaters from the left side of the shelf to the right. Then I move them back. My hands are busy but my mind is tracking the pattern: canceled plans, no alternative, vague language.
Plans change. Weather happens. People get busy. But my chest feels tight. I sit on the edge of my bed.
Something is off.
***
Tom's laptop is already open when I arrive at the Harbor site office Monday morning, the presentation deck loaded on the makeshift plywood table. Next to hm is my oat milk latte, extra shot, in a cup that's still the right temperature when I take my first sip.
He smiles when he handed it to me.
Everything looks normal.
We’re reviewing the latest drone footage for Thursday’s board meeting — the overhead shot showing how people move from the apartments down to the waterfront. I scroll to the slide that shows how the neighborhood connects to the harbor and tilt my laptop so he can see the new layout.
"What do you think?" I ask.
Tom glances at the screen. "Yeah, looks good."
I wait for the counter-suggestion. The "but what if we tried..." The back-and-forth we usually have where he tweaks one angle and I adjust another until we've built something better than either of us started with.
Nothing.
My hand pauses on the trackpad.
I watch him scroll through the image sequence on his own screen. His jaw is tight, pulled in at the corners. Shoulders raised slightly, tension climbing up the sides of his neck. When I laugh at an autocorrect typo in my slide notes, he smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
He's here. Physically present, coffee bought, laptop open, on time. But there's a carefulness to him.
"You okay?" I ask.
Tom looks up, surprised. "Yeah. Why?"
I hesitate. "You seem tense."
His eyes flick back to the laptop. "Just a lot on my mind with the presentation." He taps the trackpad twice. "We should add a transition slide between sections three and four."
I nod. Open my notes app and type transition slide 3 to 4, but I don't register the words. I want to push. Ask what's really going on. But our safe word is for when one of us needs space, not for forcing someone to talk when they're not ready.
Tom doesn't meet my eyes for the rest of the session.
At 11:30, we pack up. Tom kisses my cheek. “See you Wednesday.” I watch him leave through the site office window. His shoulders are still tight, hands shoved in his jacket pockets as he walks toward the subway entrance.
***
The Donut is loud on Tuesday morning, espresso machine hissing and the door chime ringing every thirty seconds as the pre-work rush cycles through. I'm already in the corner booth when Priya, Liv, and Nadia arrive at 7:45.
My latte is half-gone and cold. I've shredded a napkin into precise strips. A small pile of white confetti sits next to my cup.
Priya slides into the booth, takes one look at my face, and says, "Okay. What's going on?"
I exhale and set down the napkin shreds. "How do you know when someone's pulling away versus just being stressed?"
Liv leans forward, elbows on the table. "What's he doing?"
I run through the evidence. Canceled weekend plans without offering an alternative. Talk soon instead of a specific time. Monday's careful distance, the smile that didn't reach his eyes, the way he agreed with everything I suggested instead of pushing back like he usually does.
Nadia tilts her head. "Did something happen? Did you two fight?"
I shake my head. "Not that I know of. Everything was fine last week. And then Saturday he just... stepped back."
Priya exchanges a look with Liv. She turns back to me. "That's not stress. That's fear."
I look up. "Of what?"
Nadia says quietly, "Of how good it is. When things start feeling real, people get scared."
My stomach tightens. I wrap both hands around my cold latte. "So what do I do?" I ask.
I hear the edge in my voice—the need to fix it, control it, make it make sense. Nadia leans back against the booth. "You can't fix what you don't understand. Ask him."
I shake my head. "What if I'm wrong? What if I'm just reading into things and I make it weird by bringing it up?"
Liv reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Your feelings are data. And if you don't ask, you'll just spiral and start trying to control everything."
I know she's right. But asking means risking the answer. Asking means hearing something I might not want to hear.
Priya says firmly, "Ask him. Not in a 'we need to talk' way. Just... ask."
I nod slowly. Pick up my cold latte and take a sip anyway, the liquid lukewarm and slightly bitter. "Okay."
***
We've been at the café for twenty minutes and Tom hasn't looked up from his laptop once. It's 6:30 on Wednesday evening, our usual prep session before Thursday's Board presentation. My oat milk latte on the left, Tom's black coffee on the right. The presentation deck is loaded on both screens.
We've been working in silence. Tom adjusted the lighting on three images, approved my new transition slide, suggested tightening the conclusion. He's been polite. Focused. Professional.
Distant.
I close my laptop. The click is quiet but deliberate.
Tom looks up, eyebrows raised in question.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
He nods. "Sure."
"You've felt different this week. Is something wrong?"
Tom's expression shifts—careful, guarded. He sets down his coffee cup, fingers lingering on the handle for a second before letting go. "I've just been busy. A lot on my mind with the project."
I hold his gaze. "You're here, but you're not... here."
Tom looks away, jaw tightening. "I don't know what you want me to say."
I lean forward slightly, keeping my voice even. "I'm not asking for answers. I need honesty. If you're scared, say that. If you need space, say that. But don't tell me I'm imagining something I can feel.”
Tom is quiet.
The café noise fills the space. Someone is laughing near the counter, the milk steamer hisses. I wait. Don't fill the silence. Don't offer him an out.
Finally, Tom says quietly, "This—us—is good."
His hands are flat on the table, fingers spread wide. He's looking at them, not at me.
I wait. Then gently, carefully, I reach across and touch the back of his hand. "And?"
Tom looks at our hands. Then up at me. "Putting down roots. Connecting with people. It's just never worked out for me. Every time I've wanted to stay somewhere, I've ended up having to leave.” He pauses, swallows. "Or the people I got attached to... left."
My chest tightens. I remember what he told me before, about moving constantly as a kid, about Wren being the only constant, about never having a place that felt like home so he stopped looking for one.
"You think if you pull back now, it'll hurt less later," I say quietly.
Tom looks at me, surprised. "Maybe."
I nod. Don't let go of his hand.
"I can't promise we won't get hurt. But what I can promise is that I'll try. I'll try to use our safe word when I need it. I'll try not to spiral into control mode when I'm scared."
Tom's mouth quirks slightly. Almost a smile.
"I'll try to tell you when I'm freaking out instead of just pulling back," he says.
I smile. "I may be very good at planning, but I'm not a mind reader, Tom. You have to tell me how you're doing. What you're struggling with. We made a promise to be partners."
I reach across the table with my other hand and cup his face gently, palm against his jaw. Tom closes his eyes. he leans into my palm, the tension in his shoulders releasing slightly.
I lean in and kiss him.
When I pull back, Tom's eyes are still closed.
"Sam—" His voice is rough.
I say quietly, "I know."
Tom opens his eyes. The guardedness from the past three days completely gone.
"I'm trying," he says.
I squeeze his hand. "I know. That's all I ask. Keep trying."
We sit like that—hands linked across the table, coffee gone cold, the café noise washing around us. A couple walks past our table toward the exit. The barista calls out an order number. The door chime rings.
Tom clears his throat. "We should finish prepping for Thursday."
I nod. "Yeah. We should."
But neither of us moves to open our laptops.
Tom is still holding my hand.