"In my defense, I thought I'd broken the entire internet."
"And now you're designing complex interaction systems and pitching gameplay mechanics that make sense." He leans back, studying me. "You've found your groove. Which is why, after the holiday break, there's no real need for you to keep coming into the office."
"Wait—are you firing me?"
"What? No!" Xander laughs, shaking his head. "I'm saying you can work remote. Full-time. You're past the training phase, you know our systems, and honestly? That game pitch you sent last month? That's not junior dev thinking anymore."
Relief floods through me, followed by a fresh wave of panic. Remote work means flexibility. Freedom. The ability to work from anywhere.
Including home.
Including Hallow's End.
Including wherever Ivy is.
"Oh." I try to sound normal. Casual. As if the mere thought of going back doesn't crush my chest beneath a particularly vindictive anxiety elephant. "That's . . . yeah. Cool. Remote work. Verydigital nomadof me."
"You don't have to decide now." Xander's expression softens, and I wonder if my internal freakout is more external than I thought. "You can think about it over the Christmas break."
"What do we get? A week?"
"Three weeks, actually." His grin widens at whatever face I'm making. "Perks of running my own indie gaming company. I make the rules. Though between us? My wife might have influenced that decision. She's got this thing about holiday season. Always plans these elaborate themed events. This year we're doing aSnowman Soirée. There are matching sweaters involved."
Ivy loves that kind of stuff. She probably already has her Christmas movie marathon schedule planned out, complete with themed snacks, and those little cinnamon-scented candles that make her whole shop smell like a holiday bakery.
Not that I should remember how her eyes would light up talking about December plans. Or how she'd wear those stupid reindeer antlers while restocking shelves. Or how—
"Caleb?" Xander's voice snaps me back. "You still with me?"
"Yeah, sorry." I force my face into something resembling normal. "Just . . . processing three weeks off. That's wild."
"Goodwild, I hope?" He stands, stretching. "You've earned it. The whole team has. Now go finish those asset reports before Dave starts another Nerf war over missed deadlines."
"On it, boss."
The November wind bites through my jacket as I leave the office, carrying the weight of Xander's offer like a time bomb in my chest. I snag a pretzel from Ali's cart—the good one, near the Prudential Center, not the sketchy one by Park Street that definitely reuses their mustard packets.
All this time in Boston, and this is what passes for local knowledge. Which food cart guy remembers your order, which T stops flood when it rains, and how to dodge the tourists who think Boylston Street is their personal Instagram backdrop.
The city's already in full Christmas mode, because November 15th is late by Boston standards. Faneuil Hall has that weird upside-down tree thing going on, and the Common looks like Santa tossed his cookies in twinkle lights. Back home, we'd barely be thinking about Thanksgiving. But here? The whole place is barreling toward December like there's a bonus in it.
Matt keeps saying I'll adjust. "City life grows on you," he said last week, while ordering some coffee that required three hyphens and a PhD to pronounce. Easy for him to say. He's nailed the whole young professional thing. Corner office, networking events, that weird CrossFit cult he joined. Meanwhile, I'm still the guy who lights up over dollar slices like some broke college kid.
Don't get me wrong, I'm crushing it here. Sort of. I've got savings now. Health insurance that covers more than just "try not to die." Matt taught me what a 401k is (still sounds made up, but whatever). I even eat kale sometimes, though I'll deny it if Sarah asks.
But the truth is, I miss home. Not just the easy stuff, like knowing every shortcut and delivery route. I miss the ducks, who are probably full-grown now and terrorizing some other sucker for bread crumbs. Hell, I even miss Salem, that furry ball of vengeance.
But mostly—fuck,always—I miss her.
She blocked me everywhere after I left. Can't blame her. But you can't slide into DMs that don't exist anymore with, "Hey, remember when I treated you like my backup plan then bailed? My bad."
Turns out even Ivy Hart has limits.
A few days later,the weight of Xander's offer still ping-pongs in my head, keeping me up at night in some kind of insomniac's fever dream.
The Drafting Table smells of clam chowder and questionable life choices, which is exactly why Jules picked it. This place is old-school Boston—wooden booths that've probably hosted three generations of Red Sox arguments, a bartender named Sammy who pours with a heavy hand that makes happy hour actually happy, and a jukebox that only plays songs from when people still bought CDs.
I slide into our usual booth, loosening my tie like I'm some kind of real adult with actual responsibilities. Which, terrifyingly, I apparently am now. Even if I can't make a simple decision about moving back home or staying here.
