Then I’ll pay it.
Even if it hurts more than I ever thought it would.
I take my time getting ready.
Not because I need it—but because I’m hoping he’ll already be gone. That the house will be quiet and I won’t have to step into whatever tension is still hanging in the air before I’ve even finished my coffee.
I text the driver, letting him know I’ll need a ride into town.
Using a driver instead of an Uber still feels ridiculous. Over-the-top. But the last thing I want is to do something that feels like defiance today. Not when everything already feels fragile.
When I head downstairs, I barely make it into the living room before I stop short.
Langston is there.
He’s sitting in one of the chairs angled toward the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, staring out like he’s been standing guard over the morning itself. He turns the second he hears me.
“Oh,” I say. “I thought you already left.”
“I don’t like leaving,” he replies evenly, standing, “when conversations are unfinished.”
My stomach tightens.
“I was going to invite you to the event,” he continues. “Yesterday got away from me. Work was… more than I expected.”
I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “It’s fine. I don’t really want to go anyway.”
He steps closer—not touching me, but close enough that I feel him there. “You agreed to public appearances with me,” he reminds me gently. “This would be one of them.”
“I know,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to. “But—”
“What stage are you at with the nonprofit?”
The question cuts in so cleanly it knocks the argument right out of my mouth.
“What?” I blink.
His tone is calm, focused—like the conversation we were just having never existed. “Your planning. Where are you?”
I stare at him, completely thrown. “I—uh. I finally organized everything. Like, really organized it. I’ve got an actual plan now. Next step is filing the paperwork.”
“And after that?” he asks.
I hesitate, then answer honestly. “I’ll need a large venue. Something accessible. Somewhere people actually want to come.”
He nods once. He reaches for some of my notebooks, stacking them carefully in his hands.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Driving you into town,” he replies.
“I already called the driver—”
“I canceled him.”
I look up at him, confused all over again. “Langston—”
“I’m taking you,” he says calmly. “We can talk on the way.”
