21. Rediscovering Romance #2
I leave it at that because I don’t know what else to say. Not without veering into last night’s mess. Not without poking at the disappointment still sitting between us. He sends back a heart emoji, then nothing else. The silence is small but noticeable—a tiny ripple under the surface.
I stare at the screen, tapping my thumb against the case, debating saying something honest. Something like: I hate that I ruined the night.
I hate that work chose that exact moment.
I hate that I’m always choosing between being a good partner, a good mom, and a good employee.
But I don’t send any of it. Instead, I close the messages and try to focus. It doesn’t work.
I’m halfway through drafting a follow-up email when the phone rings—video call.
Reid again. I swipe to answer. He’s walking across campus, backpack slung over one shoulder, headphones around his neck.
The sun hits the tips of his hair, making them look a little lighter, and he looks… tired. Really tired.
“Hey,” he says, and the smile he gives me is warm but not effortless. “Got a few minutes before class. Wanted to see your face.”
Guilt and affection crash into each other in my chest.
“You look exhausted,” I say.
“Same to you,” he replies. “Long night?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
He shifts the phone slightly as he walks. “I didn’t want you to think I was mad last night.”
“I know you weren’t,” I say. “It just… didn’t feel good.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “It didn’t.”
We fall quiet—not tense, just both sitting in the fact that it wasn’t either of our faults and still hurt anyway.
“I’m probably overthinking it,” I say.
“You’re not,” he replies immediately. “It sucked.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “I wanted it to be special.”
“It was,” he says. “Just… not in the way we planned.”
“Special isn’t supposed to hurt,” I murmur.
He stops walking, standing off to the side as a group of students pass him. “I know we’re trying,” he says. “But some days it feels like everything around us is trying harder.”
That lands deep. I look at him through the screen, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the frustration he’s not saying out loud.
“How’s practice?” I ask quietly, shifting the topic before the weight crushes us both.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Coach is on a warpath. Group project is a mess. One guy keeps ghosting us every other meeting.”
I sigh. “I hate group projects.”
“I know,” he says. “Life skill building or whatever.”
I nod. “A fancy way of saying ‘deal with other people’s nonsense.’”
“That’s exactly what it is.” He scratches his jaw, hesitating. “And I know you have a lot going on too. I don’t want to make you feel like you’re not doing enough.”
“You don’t,” I say genuinely. “I just… I hate disappointing you.”
“You didn’t,” he says. “Last night wasn’t your fault.”
Still, the sting lingers.
“You should get to class,” I tell him after a moment.
He nods, even though neither of us is ready for the call to end.
“Hey,” he says before I can hang up. “We’ll try again. If not this weekend, another night. We’ll find a time.”
My throat tightens. “Okay.”
“And Amelia?”
“Yeah?”
He smiles a little. “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s just life.”
It’s not the perfect comforting line. It doesn’t fix the ache. But it does settle something.
“Call me later?” I ask.
“Always,” he says, and then he’s gone.
That night, after Liam is asleep and the apartment is finally quiet, I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop closed in front of me—not open, not active, just sitting there like a reminder.
I almost feel nervous opening it. Not because of what’s inside, but because of what it represents—how easy it is for my entire life to get swallowed by the next urgent thing. Before I can think too much, I grab my phone.
Hazel: You alive??
Barely. Last night didn’t go as planned.
Hazel sends back five skull emojis and then calls me. I answer, putting her on speaker.
“Explain,” she demands.
I run through it—the date night, the emails, the disappointment, the quiet ache.
Hazel groans dramatically. “Girl, that was sabotage. Work could not have picked a worse moment.”
“I know,” I say.
“You did everything right,” she insists. “You planned something. You set the vibe. You made the effort. Work interrupted YOU, not the other way around.”
“I still feel guilty.”
“Of course you do. You’re a mom and an overachiever. Guilt is your default setting.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“Love you,” she says. “But seriously—you need to reclaim something romantic before your brain starts thinking you two are roommates with Wi-Fi.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “We’re not roommates with Wi-Fi.”
“Not yet,” she says ominously. “Plan something smaller next time. Something that doesn’t give work the opportunity to ruin it.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” she thinks for a second. “Like a voice note. Or a letter. Or something you drop in the mail. Something solid and scheduled.”
It’s strangely good advice.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Not maybe,” she corrects. “Yes.”
I hang up with her feeling weirdly steadier. But when I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling, another thought settles in—a quiet fear creeping under my ribs: If this… misalignment… keeps happening, how long until small disappointments turn into big ones? How long until trying isn’t enough?
And how long until we both admit we want the same thing, but life won’t give it to us at the same time?
The questions follow me all the way into sleep.
Sunday evenings usually feel calm. Predictable.
A soft exhale before the week hits hard again.
But tonight, everything feels slightly… off.
Like the air is too still, or the apartment is one voice quieter than it should be.
Liam is stacking blocks on the living room rug, babbling to himself like he’s holding a board meeting. I’m half-watching him from the kitchen table as I sort through Liam’s daycare forms. The kind with boxes asking for emergency contacts and permissions and immunization dates.
The kind that makes me feel more like a project manager than a mother. I check the clock. Reid should be out of his late study session by now. I tell myself not to stare at my phone, but it keeps happening anyway. Hazel’s advice from earlier keeps looping in my mind.
Don’t let work take everything. Plan something small. Something he can hold on to.
I glance toward the envelope sitting on the counter. Inside is the letter I wrote last night—short, honest, simple. Something real. Something he could open between classes or after a long practice. I haven’t mailed it yet. I want to.
But a small part of me fears it’ll arrive on a day when he’s too tired to receive it. Or worse—on a day when the distance feels like a wall instead of a stretch of space. My phone buzzes. A text from Reid.
Reid: Sorry. Running late. Study group went over.