Chapter Thirty-Five
Limbo
Emmie
The drive back to Dallas feels like waking up from a dream.
One minute we’re in the cabin—stolen kisses in the loft, his hands on my skin, the promise of something hanging between us. The next, we’re loading bags into cars and saying goodbye to the trees and the stars and the place where everything changed.
Crew drives with Foster. I ride with Sadie. The separation feels intentional, like we both need space to process what happened.
Or maybe I’m overthinking it.
“So?” Sadie demands before we’ve even hit the highway. “What happened after we left?”
“We talked.”
“Talked.”
“And… other things.”
“Emmie!”
“Nothing major! Just—” I feel my face flush. “Making out. In the loft. On his terrible air mattress.”
Sadie shrieks so loud I nearly swerve into the other lane. “I knew it! I knew leaving you alone would work. Foster owes me twenty bucks.”
“You bet on us?”
“Obviously. I bet you’d figure it out this weekend. He thought it would take until Christmas.” She grins triumphantly. “So? Are you guys together now? Like, officially?”
I stare out the windshield at the endless stretch of highway. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You just said you made out in a loft!”
“We did. And it was…” I search for the right word. “Amazing. But we didn’t really talk about what it means. What we are now. What happens next.”
“So talk about it when you get home.”
“Yeah.” I chew my bottom lip. “Yeah, we will.”
I’m sure we will.
* * *
Except we don’t.
By the time we get back to Dallas, it’s late. We haul our bags upstairs in tired silence, moving around each other in the familiar choreography of roommates. But there’s a new awareness now—every brush of shoulders, every accidental touch, sends electricity skittering across my skin.
“I should—uh,” Crew gestures toward his room. “Early day tomorrow.”
“Right. Yeah. Me too.” I don’t have an early day. I have nothing until noon. But I don’t know what else to say.
We stand in the hallway, three feet apart, neither of us moving.
“This weekend was—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m glad we—”
“Me too.”
Silence. Murphy meows from somewhere in the apartment, annoyed at being ignored.
“Goodnight, Emmie.”
“Goodnight, Crew.”
I step forward and wrap my arms around him. He stiffens for a fraction of a second—old habits—then melts into it, his arms coming around me, his face pressed into my hair.
We stay like that for a long moment. Just holding each other.
“Goodnight,” he says again, quieter this time.
“Goodnight.”
We separate. Go to our own rooms. Our own beds.
It’s weird.
I lie awake for hours, cuddling with Murphy and staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the weekend. The kiss by the dresser. The loft. The way he looked at me in the firelight.
My phone buzzes. Sadie.
Well??? Did you talk???
We hugged and went to bed.
EMMIE.
I know.
Separate beds???
Yes.
EMMIE.
I KNOW.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand and pull the covers over my head.
Tomorrow. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.
* * *
Tomorrow, he’s gone before I wake up.
I shuffle into the kitchen at nine, still in my pajamas, and find a Post-it note on the coffee maker.
Early shift. Didn’t want to wake you. —C
That’s it. No “let’s talk later.” No “this weekend was amazing.” Just his initials and the ghost of his handwriting.
I make coffee, feed Murphy, clean out his litter box, and try not to spiral.
It’s fine. He had work. He’s busy. This doesn’t mean anything.
Except it feels like something. It feels like the distance creeping back in, the walls going up, the careful avoidance we perfected over the past two months.
Stop, I tell myself. You’re being ridiculous.
But the anxiety gnaws at me all morning as I shower, dress, and head downtown to meet my agent for lunch.
* * *
Rachel Boyce is a force of nature, a no-nonsense New Yorker who’s in Dallas for the week for some romance con thing I have no clue about.
Forty-five, dark hair streaked with early gray, always in blazers that mean business.
When I queried my first cookbook three years ago, she was the only agent who responded—and she responded loudly.
A phone call at 7 AM, her voice cutting through my sleepy confusion: “This is good. This is really good. I want to represent you, and I don’t say that often. ”
She wasn’t lying. She doesn’t say much she doesn’t mean.
“You look like hell,” she announces as I slide into the booth at the Tex-Mex place she insists on every time she’s in town. “Have you been sleeping? You need to sleep. I can’t sell books for a zombie.”
“Good to see you too, Rachel.”
“I’m serious. You’ve got bags under your eyes.” She flags down a waiter and orders chips and queso without looking at the menu, then barrels on before I can respond. “Anyway. We have things to discuss. The publisher is thrilled with the manuscript. Thrilled. Marketing is already ramping up.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s great. Pre-orders are strong.” She leans forward, tapping the table for emphasis.
“And they love the dedication. ‘The grumpy man who taught me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.’ Very intriguing.
Very marketable. They want to play it up—the mystery angle.
Who is this grumpy man? People will eat it up. ”
I shift in my seat. “It’s not really a mystery. It’s just… personal.”
“Personal sells, Emmie. Personal is the whole brand.” She studies me. “So? Is he real? This grumpy man?”
I nearly choke on my water.
“It’s marketing gold is what it is.” She waves down a waiter and orders for both of us without consulting the menu.
“Now. We need to discuss the book tour. Ten cities, starting in Dallas, obviously. LA. Chicago. New York. Maybe Austin—you have Texas roots, yes? We’ll play that up. Hometown girl makes good.”
“Rachel—”
“And interviews. So many interviews. Everyone wants to talk about the inspiration behind the book. The mysterious grumpy man.” She leans forward, eyes glittering. “Is there a story there? Something juicy we can use?”
Is there a story?
I think about Crew. About the cabin. About making out on an air mattress and waking up alone and having no idea where we stand.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
She studies me over the rim of her wine glass. “You seem distracted, darling. Distant. Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Emmie.”
I sigh. Rachel has known me long enough to see through my deflections. “I just… there’s someone. And I don’t know what we are. And I spent the weekend with him and it was amazing and now I’m back and I don’t know if he wants what I want and I’m trying not to catastrophize but—”
“Breathe.” She holds up a hand. “Does this someone have anything to do with the grumpy man in your dedication?”
“… Maybe.”
“And what is it you want, exactly?”
The question stops me cold. Because I know what I want. I’ve always known. I want marriage. I want kids. I want Sunday dinners and Christmas mornings and someone who chooses me every single day.
I want Crew.
But wanting something and getting it are two different things.
“I want him to be sure,” I say quietly. “I want to know this isn’t going to fall apart the second things get hard. He pushed me away once already. I can’t go through that again.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Have you told him that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Perhaps you should.” She reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Communication, darling. It’s not just for book deals.”
The food arrives—a taco salad for her, cheese enchiladas for me—and Rachel pivots seamlessly back to business. Tour dates. Media training. Possible podcast appearances. I push rice around my plate, nodding along, making appropriate noises, but my mind is elsewhere.
What do you want?
I want to stop being afraid. I want to trust that Crew won’t run when things get scary.
“—and of course, the podcast circuit will be essential. Emmie? Emmie, are you listening?”
“Sorry.” I force a smile. “Long weekend.”
Rachel sighs, but there’s fondness in it. “Go home. Take a nap. Sort out your romantic entanglements.” She signals for the check. “And call me tomorrow. We have a lot of work to do.”
* * *
I’m halfway home when my phone buzzes. Crew’s name is on the screen. My heart stutters.
Are you free tonight?
I stare at the words, trying to decode them. Is this casual? Significant? Is he going to tell me the weekend was a mistake, that we should go back to being roommates, that he’s not ready for—
Another message pops up.
I want to take you on a proper date.
Then, a few seconds later:
Our first one. For real this time.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it. I read the messages again. Then a third time.
For real this time.
My fingers fly across the keyboard.
Yes!
Pick me up at 7?
His response is almost immediate.
I live with you.
Fine. Knock on my door at 7. Make it romantic.
A pause. Then:
I’ll see what I can do.
I’m grinning like an idiot when I pull into the parking garage.
I have a date tonight. A real date. With the grumpy man who taught me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.
And for the first time in months, I’m not afraid.