He's got a point.
"The fire chief offered me a promotion," I admit. "Full-time lieutenant. I'd have to turn down the NHL if I take it."
"Have you told Piper?"
"Yeah."
"What did she say?”
“We didn’t talk about it.”
“Why not?”
Because if we did, it becomes real. A choice I have to make instead of a possibility I can avoid. Because I'm terrified she'll tell me to take the NHL opportunity and I'll have to leave, or worse, she'll tell me to stay and I'll resent her for it.
"I'm scared," I finally say.
Gage nods, like this is the first honest thing I've said all morning. "Good. Means it matters. But being scared is fine. Letting scared make your decisions for you is bullshit."
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Preston, this one with a screenshot of social media analytics. Engagement is up. Brand sentiment is positive. The scouts are impressed.
All because of a relationship that was never supposed to be real.
"Go talk to her," Gage says. "And Lockwood? Stop trying to be the hero who sacrifices everything. Sometimes the brave thing is asking for what you want."
He leaves, and I'm alone in the hallway with my bleeding face and my terrible decisions.
By evening, I've convinced myself seventeen times to go talk to Piper and chickened out eighteen times.
I stand on my porch, looking at her cabin twenty feet away. Lights are on inside. I can see her shadow moving past the window—probably editing content or responding to comments or doing any of the hundred things that make up her job.
The job that's finally working because of our arrangement.
My phone is in my hand. I've typed and deleted four different versions:
Can I come over?
About last night.
Are you okay?
I miss you.
Each one feels wrong.
It sounds ominous. Like I'm about to break up with her, which I'm not, because you can't break up with someone you're not actually dating. Except we slept together, which means we kind of are dating, or at least we crossed a line that makes everything exponentially more complicated.
A light flicks on in her bedroom. The curtains are open just enough that I can see her pulling on a sweatshirt—one of mine, I realize, the grey one I left at her place last week. She's wearing my clothes. In her cabin. After we had sex.
This is real. Whatever we're doing, it stopped being fake the moment she kissed me in the firelight.
I step off my porch.
Take three steps toward her cabin.
Stop.
Through her window, I can see her shadow moving. Pacing, probably. Making lists. Doing all the things she does when she's overthinking, just like I'm overthinking out here like a creep.
