He lifted a hand in a small wave, casual, almost dismissive—but to Nettie it felt like so much more. Usually he stormed off but this time he was telling her ‘bye’ - like she was worth acknowledging to him. Then he twisted the handlebars, revved once, and shot forward into the night.
Nettie stood frozen in the parking lot, clutching her napkin like a lifeline, her pulse still racing, her chest tight with the unbearable weight of hope and dread mingled together.
That evening, Nettie was elbow-deep in soap suds, sleeves rolled up, hair in a messy knot on top of her head as she stared out the tiny kitchen window above her sink. The glass reflected her tired face back at her, the faint shadows under her eyes a reminder of long workdays and even longer nights where sleep never came easily. The small house smelled faintly of grilled chicken and garlic—meals she’d portioned out for the week—her desperate attempt at being responsible when all she wanted was to curl up on the couch with her emergency Kit-Kat stash and binge something brainless on television.
She dunked the pan into the sink again, scrubbing at the browned bits stuck stubbornly to the bottom, when her phone buzzed across the counter. The sharp vibration jolted her heart into her throat.
Her first instinct was to ignore it. Whoever it was could wait. She wasn’t in the mood—not for Gina’s well-meaning texts, not for Shannon’s half-joking check-ins, not for anyone. Her friends had been kind earlier, but their pity had felt like salt in the wound after opening her big mouth in front of Tate.
And Tate… oh gosh, Tate.
She flushed just remembering the mortification of his overhearing her earlier. Her stomach clenched, and she shoved the thought away, scrubbing harder at the pan. But then her phone buzzed again. The sound echoed in the silence of herkitchen, louder than the running faucet, louder than the clatter of dishes.
Two messages?
Her chest squeezed.
That was never just spam.
Rolling her eyes—half at herself, half at whoever dared disturb her fortress of self-pity and doubt—she yanked her hands out of the soapy water and reached for the dishtowel. Water dripped down her forearms as she wiped them furiously, leaving the pan abandoned in the sink like a sinking ship. On the counter, her neatly lined meal-prep containers waited, open and ready, a rainbow of cherry tomatoes, bowtie pasta, and steamed broccoli lined up like tiny soldiers.
She was trying. She really was. Healthy meals, structure, order. Discipline. But order never quite filled the hollow ache. And when it didn’t?
That’s what the Kit-Kats hidden behind the flour canister were for.
Balance, yo.
She dried her fingers with exaggerated care, like drawing out the moment might soften whatever blow waited for her on that glowing screen. With a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, she picked up her phone.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
The name on the screen—Tate.
Not Gina.
Not Shannon.
Not spam…
Tate.
Her thumb hovered, trembling, over the notification, her whole body buzzing like she’d just plugged herself into an electrical outlet. She clicked.
The world stopped.
Her knees went weak, and she grabbed the counter with her free hand to steady herself, the edge biting into her palm.
Ohhhhh. Oh no. This was not fair.
On the screen was a picture that should have been outlawed by every reasonable code of decency. Obscene – in some code book somewhere. Illegal- most definitely in her mind, this was breaking some sort of law against nature. Something so dangerously perfect it would be seared into her mind forever, branded upon the back of her skull. Even if the world ended in the next five minutes, she would die with this image etched behind her eyelids and retinas.
Tate.
And a kitten.
She blinked, as though her eyes had betrayed her and she needed to double-check. But no—it was very real.
The photo showed Tate sprawled on a couch, his head propped against a pillow. His dark hair was rumpled like he’d run a hand through it too many times, his jaw shadowed in a way that made her mouth go dry. But it wasn’t just him.
