At 5:14 PM, I called. It rang four times before going to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. My hand shook as I set the phone back in the cupholder, but I pretended it was just from caffeine.
The rest of the day passed in quarter-hour increments. I checked the time so often the numbers started to look like random symbols. At 8:30, I drove home. I made it exactly three blocks before rerouting, telling myself I just needed to pick upa few things from the grocery store, even though the fridge was already full.
I took the route that passed by his place. The porch light was off, the bike was there, but no other sign of life. I didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, but my head kept turning, trying to see through the window. There was nothing.
I circled back twice. On the third pass, the bike was gone. I went home, sat on the edge of my bed, and stared at the empty space on the mattress like it owed me something. I tried calling again at 9:52, then 10:17. Both times: straight to voicemail.
I left a message, finally, on the third attempt. “Call me back,” I said, voice so gruff it could have belonged to someone else. “Or just… let me know you’re okay.”
The night stretched on. I tried to watch TV, tried to read, but all I could do was pace. I checked the locks. I checked the phone. I drank two fingers of bourbon, then three, but it did nothing for the static in my chest. At 1:11 AM, I texted:“If you need space, fine. But don’t do this. Please.”
I fell asleep on the couch, phone clutched in my hand. When I woke, the screen had cracked, spider-webbing from the corner where my thumb must have pressed too hard in the night.
Day two was worse. I spent it replaying every word of our last conversation, every glance, every silence. I tried to piece together what I’d done wrong, what I could fix, but the answers all circled back to the same place: the secret, the hiding, the fact that I needed him, but couldn’t say it out loud.
That evening, I drove past his place again. This time, the bike was there, but the blinds were drawn. No lights. I almost stopped, almost knocked on the door, but couldn’t do it.
Instead, I parked two houses down and sat, engine off, just watching. I told myself I was just making sure he was safe, but I knew what it looked like. I was a cop, after all. I’d seen this play out from the other side of the badge.
At midnight, I finally broke. I dialed again, this time letting it ring until the voicemail beeped.“I’m sorry,”I said, the words sticking like gravel in my throat.“Please call me. Or come over. Anytime.”
I didn’t sleep. I just lay in the dark, listening to the house creak, the phone buzz with junk emails and nothing else. At three AM, I nearly drove to his place, but the thought of standing on his porch in the cold, hands empty, was too much.
On the third night, I gave up. I sat in the living room with all the lights off, the mug that wasn’t mine in front of me on the coffee table. I turned it in my hands, thumb tracing the crack, trying to remember the sound of his laugh when he’d first found it in my cabinet and claimed it for himself.
At exactly midnight, someone knocked on the door.
Not a timid knock. Not the tap of a neighbor, or the cautious rap of a Girl Scout. This was three sharp, deliberate hits—like someone was serving a warrant.
My heart sprinted. For a second, I just sat there, mug clutched in both hands, staring at the door like it might explode inward.
The knock came again, harder.
I set the mug down so fast it rolled and clattered against the remote, spilling dregs onto the table. I ran to the door, unlocked it, and opened just enough to see.
Ransom stood on the porch, face shadowed under the porch light. He wore a denim jacket over a black tee, hands jammed in the pockets, body held so rigid it looked like he was bracing for impact. His eyes were not the soft brown I remembered, but hard, almost flat.
He looked at me for a full three seconds before he spoke. “We need to talk.”
He brushed past me without waiting for an invite, trailing cold air and the faintest trace of motor oil. He stopped in theliving room, glanced once at the mug on the table, then turned to face me. He didn’t sit, didn’t even take off his jacket. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the wall behind my head.
I shut the door. My hands were shaking so bad I had to grip the doorknob to keep them steady. “You want coffee?” I asked, just to fill the air.
He shook his head. “No. I want this to stop.”
It took a second for the words to make sense. “What—?”
He cut me off. “This. The hiding. The rules. The ‘don’t tell anyone, don’t let anyone see.’ I can’t do it anymore, Floyd.”
The words landed like a fist to the sternum. I stepped forward, but stopped short. “We talked about this. You know why I can’t—”
He turned on me, fast. “No, I don’t know. I don’t know anything except that I’m tired of feeling like a crime scene you’re desperate to bleach out of your life.”
The heat in his voice stunned me. I’d never seen him like this: not angry, but something sharper, more final.
“Please,” I said, softer. “Just give me time. I’m trying—”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’ve had time. You’ve had your whole fucking life. And you used it to build walls so high, nobody could ever get to you. Not even me.”
