Demi grins. “Debatable.”
Drumming her fingers against her knee, Dem’s rings catch in the fluorescent light. Everything about her is bold: her tousled red hair, her dark stained lips, the way she commands space without ever asking permission. She’s the kind of woman who floats through life untouched by the weight of expectations—a trait I both admire and resent in equal measure.
I made a pretty penny from my agency after the split with Andrew. It allowed me to keep my hundred-year-old charming home in the heart of Stillwater Bend, Texas, and kick the jerk out.
Stillwater is a town split in two, not by a river, but by the kind of people who settle here. The rough side isn’t rough so much as rugged. It’s filled with artists, makers, musicians, and the occasional recluse who keeps to themselves until Friday night when the local bar comes alive. The yuppie side, though, is all polished sidewalks, franchise cafés, and rows of new-builds that lack soul. I settled in the part where the houses have history and the streets feel like they’ve seen things.
It fits.
So far, this new, quiet chapter has done its best work by revealing exactly who’s been in my corner all along. Most friends came from the teams I led. They were people who stayed while I turned nothing into something. And when I sold theagency, those friendships faded, not out of spite, just out of circumstance. It turns out, “We should get together soon!” is the adult equivalent of “Have a great summer!” scrawled in a yearbook.
But not Demi Kincaid. Demi held fast. And in her quiet loyalty, I realized she belonged in my life for all the right reasons.
She was the perfect mix of swagger and sass. During her interview ten years ago, I warned, “This client will bitch if the logo isn’t daring enough.” Demi leaned back, twirled her pen, shot up an eyebrow, and deadpanned, “Sweetheart, I’ll produce a logo so panty-meltingly hot, he’ll blow his morning joe all over the place and lose his damn mind—in a good way, of course.” I snort-laughed in the interview, and sealed our contract on the spot.
At the time, she swore she “did temporary things” and “couldn’t commit.” But she listened. She got it. Got me. Stayed for ten years. And when she finally left to start her own whirlwind mix of consulting, design work, and whatever shiny new obsession grabbed her attention each month, I realized we kicked ass even harder when we weren’t boss and co-worker.
Demi watches me work for a few beats before stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied sigh. “You know what we should do tonight?”
I don’t look up, but I can already hear the trouble in her voice. “Define ‘should.’”
“Go out.”
I grunt, prying another warped nail from the dresser. “Yeah, let me just pencil that in between my sleepy tea and crashing on the couch at nine.”
These days, Demi storms through like a hurricane in unlaced Doc Martens, leaving glittering mischief in her wake and fresh momentum in my bones.
Demi is free in a way I still can’t fully grasp. She does what she wants, doeswhoshe wants, and never seems to second-guess herself. No partner, no kids—though she wraps mine in all her love. Nothing anchors her except her own instincts. And still, she’s happy. Genuinely so.
I, however, lie awake with the ceiling sneering at me, torn between worshipping her reckless freedom and wanting to call her at 2 a.m. to scream into the phone, “Spill your secrets, you glorious witch!” until she finally tells me how the hell she makes it look so damn easy. I am a constant analyzer of where I’ve gone wrong.
“No, I’m serious.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Your thirty-ninth birthday is in just over a week, and I refuse to let your last few days of thirty-eight slip by in domestic monotony.” She tilts her head at me. “And you, my dear, have not been out past 7 p.m. in—”
“God knows how long,” I finish for her, sighing.
“Exactly.” She lets satisfaction curl her lips. “So, we’re going out. Tonight. Andrew’s coming to pick up Bash soon, right?”
I glance toward the office where Bash is still glued to his tablet. “Yeah, any minute now.”
“Perfect. No excuses.” She claps her hands together. “We’ll get a drink, listen to some music, maybe even flirt with strangers if you’re feeling frisky.”
“You think I remember how to do that?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s funny. I haven’t touched a drink in so long, I’ll probably be shit-faced after one and picked up any man that can hold three seconds of eye contact.”
Demi waves a dismissive hand. “Please. Drinking and flirting are like riding a bike. You never forget, you just are a little wobbly at first. Plus, you’ll be a cheap date.”
I tell myself I long for the simple life. Lower expenses, nothing flashy. Just enough space to breathe, to work, tobe. To stepoutside and hear cicadas chitter in the heat, to know the stories behind the creaky wood floors and the chipped porcelain sink in my kitchen. No grand expectations. No risk of failure. Just a quiet, comfortable life where no one asks what the hell I’m doing with it. Or if I’m ever going to get married. That, in itself, is a palm to the face.
Is that longing or retreat? Am I stepping into something new, or slipping away from the person I used to be? The ambition that once burned like a wildfire has softened into embers banked beneath the surface. It might be growth, or I just stopped trying. Maybe I found peace or simply found a place to disappear. Disappearing sounds suspiciously easy these days.
This is what it is—not dust drifting across afternoon light filtering through my old windows, not the quiet thrum of a smaller life—but me, learning to rest. Soft, steady… enough.
No more chasing.
No more proving.
No more trying to fix what never wanted to be fixed.
I shake my head, but the idea of being out, of being something other than just Mom or business owner for a few hours, feels oddly appealing.
