Chapter 6 #4
“You wanna come over around six?” I say. “We could cook or something. Grab a movie. Blockbuster run?”
Her face lights up.
“Actually, that’s perfect. I’ve been slacking on Pilates. Maybe I’ll shop with my friends after.”
Friends.
There it is again.
This whole mysterious friend group I never see.
But I just nod.
We kiss on the dock before splitting off.
Soft. Slow. Promising later.
By five twenty five, I’ve got the acoustic in my hands and I’m on the tiny corner stage like I never left college.
It’s not glamorous.
Sticky floors. Neon beer signs. Afternoon crowd.
But the second I strum the first chord—
It’s like oxygen.
Like I finally exhale for the first time all week.
People actually look at me.
Smile.
Tap their feet.
Some girl at the bar mouths the lyrics.
And God help me—
I love it.
I love the attention.
I love the way heads turn.
I love being wanted for something that isn’t a résumé or a paycheck.
This part of me feels… real.
Halfway through the second set, I step offstage for water.
And this cute, bubbly brunette slides onto the stool next to me like she’s been waiting.
Tan. Bright eyes. Easy grin.
The kind of girl who looks like summer.
“Hi,” she says. “You’re kinda incredible.”
I laugh. “Kinda?”
“Okay, very.”
She sticks out her hand. “Emily.”
“Ethan.”
She leans in like we’re sharing a secret. “So how long have you been hiding that voice from the public?”
“Couple years.”
“Criminal.”
We flirt. Light. Harmless.
It’s easy.
Too easy.
Then I catch myself smiling too long.
“Listen,” I say gently, “I’m seeing someone.”
She doesn’t even flinch.
“Of course you are,” she says. “Men like you are never single.”
I laugh.
“Can I give you my number anyway?” she asks. “For when you break up?”
Bold.
Confident.
Honestly kind of sexy.
But I shake my head, grinning. “I’m usually here. Or the bar down the block. Or the marina.”
She winks. “Good to know.”
As I head back up, she calls, “Play something for me next set?”
“Dangerous request, darling,” I say.
But when I sing—
I catch her swaying, one hand in the air, watching me like I’m the only thing in the room.
I hold eye contact through a line.
Her face goes red.
I look away, smiling.
Damn.
This feels good.
Too good.
Work’s steady. Friends are solid. Sage’s incredible.
Everything’s clicking.
For once.
I finish the last song to whistles and claps.
“Come back next Sunday,” I say into the mic. “Three to six. Come bug me again.”
Tips clink into the guitar case while I pack up.
Bills. Fives. Crumpled singles.
Not glamorous.
But it’s something.
I stash the guitar carefully in my trunk.
Out of sight.
Just in case Sage shows up early.
No need for questions.
No need for her to know.
I change in the bar bathroom.
Gym shorts. Hoodie. Sneakers.
I look like exactly who I told her I’d be.
I fold my gig shirt carefully anyway—like it matters—and tuck it into the trunk beside the guitar. Close it gently. Like if I don’t slam it, the secret will behave.
Then I drive home. My BMW glides smoothly, the lease payment I made yesterday keeping me in the drivers seat. I never sweated money before—was always responsible even when I indulged myself. But being with her? Sage? She was a woman who I wanted to give the finer things in life to.
She’s already there.
Not pacing. Not impatient.
Sitting on the stoop like she belongs there.
Knees tucked up. Overnight bag at her feet. Paper grocery sack beside it, a baguette poking out the top like a cartoon.
For a second, guilt hits me sharp and stupid.
She was waiting.
But it’s not like I cheated.
Not like I did anything wrong.
I park and cut the engine.
She looks up and smiles like she’s been waiting all day just for that moment.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I answer, softer than I mean to.
She stands, brushes her hands on her dress. “I thought I’d make something special for a late dinner. Then maybe we could walk to Blockbuster?”
My chest tightens.
I kiss her, slow and grateful. “Baby. That sounds perfect.”
I grab her bag and the groceries before she can argue and carry everything upstairs.
“I’m gonna shower real quick,” I tell her. “Make yourself at home.”
She already has.
When I come out, towel around my waist, hair damp—
She’s barefoot at the stove.
Garlic sizzling in olive oil.
The smell hits me instantly. Warm. Rich. Alive.
Chopped vegetables are lined up neatly on the counter like she’s been cooking in my kitchen forever. Peppers. Zucchini. Onion. Something green I don’t recognize but trust anyway. Chopped chicken marinating in bowl next to the stove.
“What are you making?” I ask.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling. “A light stir-fry.”
“Smells incredible.”
“Babe could, you get the white wine from the fridge,” she says. “It should be chilled.”
I do as told. And she just called me ‘babe’. It was very casual but I liked it. Something warm settled in my chest that this woman referred to me as her ‘babe.’
Hiding a grin, I poured her a glass.
She takes a sip, hums approvingly, then goes back to stirring like this is just how evenings work.
This is so far from beers and burgers I almost don’t recognize my own life.
We eat outside on the tiny patio.
Plastic chairs. City noise. String lights I put up on a whim years ago and never thought much about.
And somehow—
It’s perfect.
The food. The wine. Her laugh.
She talks about Pilates. About shopping. About nothing that feels heavy.
I take her hand across the table and kiss her knuckles.
“You’re perfect,” I say, before I can stop myself.
She smiles, sweet and unguarded. “You’re ridiculous.”
But she doesn’t pull her hand away.
We clean up together.
She rinses. I dry.
Easy. Familiar. Like muscle memory I didn’t know I had.
Later, I head into the bedroom to grab my phone—and notice the desk drawer is open.
That’s weird.
I’m obsessive about closing drawers.
I shut it automatically.
Then pause.
Open it again.
Everything’s there.
Checkbook.
Old watch—the one Erin insisted I buy right before things ended.
My Tag Heuer, still boxed, untouched.
But the papers—
My bills aren’t in the order I left them.
I remember clearly paying my Verizon bill last. And leaving it on top so I could submit it with my expense report. It should be on top.
Instead, my credit card statement is there and the BMW lease booklet stub I send in monthly with a check.
I stare at it for a second.
Then shake my head.
She probably needed a pen. Or scratch paper for the recipe?
Nothing.
It’s nothing.
I close the drawer carefully this time.
Out in the living room, Sage laughs at something on TV.
I breathe.
Everything’s perfect.
And I don’t let myself question it.
The night stays easy.
Easy like breathing.
We walk to Blockbuster hand in hand, arguing about movies we’ve both already seen. End up grabbing two “just in case,” plus candy we definitely don’t need.
Back home, we curl up on the couch.
Her legs over mine. My hand tracing lazy circles on her thigh.
Half the movie goes unwatched.
She keeps glancing up at me like she’s memorizing my face.
I don’t think I’ve ever had this before.
Not like this.
Not quiet.
Not soft.
Not someone who just… stays.
Later, we stumble into bed laughing, kissing, slow and sweet and unhurried. No rush. No heat like the boat. Just warm and close and lazy and comfortable.
Like we’ve done this a hundred times.
Like we could do this forever.
Afterward, she curls into my chest, fingers tracing patterns on my skin while the city lights flicker through the blinds.
Cars passing.
Distant sirens.
Boston breathing around us.
Weekend’s over.
Work in the morning.
Real life waiting.
But right now?
It’s just her hair in my mouth and her leg tangled with mine.
Perfect.
I fall asleep like that.
Something wakes me.
Not loud.
Just… movement.
I roll toward her automatically.
Empty.
Still warm, but empty.
The bathroom light glows faint under the door.
I hear cupboards opening.
Closing.
Drawers sliding.
Soft rustling.
Not normal bathroom sounds.
Not water running.
Not brushing teeth.
More like—
Searching.
I blink awake slowly.
Sit up.
Listen.
Another drawer.
Something shifting.
Like someone rifling through stuff.
My stomach tightens for no real reason.
I slide out of bed and pad down the hall.
She’s standing at the sink with the medicine cabinet open, half her body blocking it.
Stuff’s moved around. Mouthwash on the counter. Bandages out.
“Sage?” My voice is still sleepy. “Baby?”
She turns fast.
Too fast.
Cheeks flushed.
Eyes a little wide.
“Oh— sorry,” she says. “I just… I’ve got a bit of a headache. Must’ve been the wine. I was looking for Tylenol.”
“Oh,” I say, stepping closer. “It’s behind the extra mouthwash. Back left.”
She glances. “Right. I just didn’t see it.”
“No problem.”
She smiles, takes two, drinks from the sink.
Totally normal.
Totally fine.
And still…
Weird.
Because Tylenol wouldn’t be in the drawers.
Or the cabinet that low.
But whatever.
Headaches make people dumb.
I wait for her to head back to bed.
Then I step into the bathroom and close the door.
Just habit.
Just checking.
The cabinet’s messy now.
And my shaving bag’s unzipped.
That’s what makes me pause.
I crouch.
Open it.
Toothpaste.
Travel toothbrush.
Mints.
Hair gel.
Three condoms.
Unused.
All still there.
Nothing missing.
So what was she—
I shake my head.
You’re being paranoid.
She had a headache.
That’s it.
I zip it up and put everything back where it was.
Turn off the light.
Go back to bed.
She’s already curled up, half asleep, reaching for me.
I slide in behind her and wrap my arm around her waist.
She relaxes instantly.
Like she belongs there.
Like nothing’s wrong.
Like I imagined the whole thing.
And after a minute—
I convince myself I did.