Chapter 16 #3
Cole set the pasta on the counter and opened my refrigerator without asking. That small, unthinking familiarity—his large hands navigating my shelves—pulled a tight knot loose beneath my ribs. I rested my palm against the cool stainless steel of the stove.
“And Rick?” I asked.
Cole pulled out a lemon and rolled it under his right palm on the cutting board before slicing it in half.
“Still Rick.”
It didn't sound like a real answer. But it wasn't a lie I could pin down either.
“That doesn't tell me anything.”
“He’s talked to some people. I’ve talked to him. Nothing’s locked down.”
I watched his broad back as he minced garlic.
The wide shoulders, the slight tilt protecting his left side, the steady rhythm of the knife on the wood.
It was entirely too easy to let the phrasing stand.
*Nothing’s locked down.* That was the exact sentence I would have used to describe New York three hours ago.
“Got it,” I said.
The water came to a rolling boil. I dropped the noodles into the pot and let the steam warm my face.
Cole didn't volunteer any details. I didn't mention the email.
We moved around the small kitchen with an awkward, familiar shorthand: he tried to drain the pasta before I could locate the colander, I wrestled the wooden spoon from his grip when he threatened to oversalt the sauce, and for a second our knuckles brushed over the skillet handle.
Cole looked down at my hands.
“Brutal day?” he asked.
I thought of Diane, the open document on my screen, the word *base* printed beside *New York*. I could give him a piece of it without explaining the rest. I could say I’d interviewed for an expansion lead. I could leave the door open for him to ask.
“A long one,” I said.
Cole nodded, as if he knew the precise weight of that answer. He didn't pry. He pressed a brief kiss to the side of my forehead, near my temple, and went back to stirring the skillet.
We ate at the small table beside the window.
Outside, headlights cut through the Capitol Hill drizzle, and the neighbor downstairs had finally given up on his scale.
Cole told me about Reyes walking into the locker room wearing two completely different sneakers and trying to justify it by arguing they were both black.
I laughed hard enough that I had to set my fork down.
“That’s not a defense,” I said.
“We informed him. Marcus wanted to classify it as an art installation.”
“Your club needs adult supervision.”
“You’d be amazed how much they charge for that.”
Cole’s phone buzzed on the tabletop. He glanced at the screen once and flipped it face down without reading the caller ID. I reached out and did the exact same thing to mine. Both devices sat dark and unclaimed between our empty plates.
Later, Cole washed while I dried, complaining that modern kitchen sinks were engineered to punish anyone over six feet tall. When he shut off the faucet, he lingered behind me, not quite touching.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.
The question still carried weight. I turned around. Cole had a bead of water on his forearm, and the exhaustion hadn't left his face—it had just retreated behind a quiet, tentative smile.
“Yeah.”
I didn't say: *I need to tell you I might be moving to New York.* I didn't say: *Who has Rick been talking to?* I slid my hand around the back of his neck and kissed him slowly, long enough to feel the tension drop out of his shoulders before his arm came around my waist.
Late that night, after the lamps were off, my phone vibrated on the bedside table.
I thought it might be Priya with a late edit, or an automated calendar sync. Cole was asleep on his side, his back to me, one large hand resting open against the sheet. I picked up the device to silence it.
The notification came from a sports news account I’d started following after Cole Callahan had become part of my life. *League Sources: San Diego advances in talks with Cole Callahan. Two-year deal with a third-year club option on the table. Parties expect a formal call this week.*
There was an attached photo of Cole walking out of the Georgetown training facility, snapped with a long lens from across the parking lot.
He was wearing the same navy club jacket currently hanging on the wall hook in my entryway.
Below the post, comments were already piling up—strangers arguing over cities, salary, and loyalty as if none of those words were attached to an actual human body.
I read the headline twice. Then I opened the thread, even though I knew nothing in the comments would make that first sentence any less real. *Rick’s talked to some people. Nothing’s locked down.*
I had a document sitting in my inbox, too. Specific dates. A city. A possible extension. And I’d made the exact same calculation: that tonight wasn't the right time to say it out loud.
The phone grew warm against my palm. I opened a text thread and typed: *When were you planning on telling me about San Diego?*
I hovered over the send arrow.
I didn't press it.
I looked over at Cole, his profile faintly outlined by the streetlight. Then I backspaced through every letter, flipped the phone face down, and lay awake in the dark, listening to the rain tap against the glass.