I could stop here. I should stop here. This does not need to be a conversation. This does not need tone analysis. This does not need anything more than logistics.
And yet.
Me:
Lucy okay?
The response is immediate. No typing bubble hesitation this time.
Hildy:
She’s asleep. I’m awake.
That one lands.
I shift back on the bed, tension settling into my shoulders again. I picture her pacing, maybe sitting at the kitchen table, maybe leaning against the counter. I do not picture the book. I refuse to.
Me:
Long night?
There’s a beat.
Then…
Hildy:
You could say that.
I almost smile. Almost. I don’t push. That would be a mistake. She’s not inviting conversation; she’s tolerating it. There’s a difference, and I’m not an idiot.
Me:
Sorry to add to it. We’ll text when we land.
The typing bubble appears, disappears, and appears again.
Hildy:
I always appreciate knowing what tomorrow looks like. Safe flight.
That’s the end. That’s the line. Clear. Clean. A closed door that doesn’t need to be slammed to make the point.
I lock my phone and set it face down on the bed.
Aleks watches me for a second, then shakes his head. “You look worse now.”
“I’m tired,” I say.
“That’s not just tired. That’s…” he replies.
I don’t dignify that with a response.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, listening to the rain hammer against the windows. Somewhere between Florida humidity and delayed flights, I’ve managed to open a door I told myself I was keeping closed.
Not because I wanted anything. Because I had an excuse.
I close my eyes and tell myself, firmly, that excuses are not the same thing as intentions.
