I frowned. Read—Damien—had always known what to do. Always guided us. Guided me.
(555) 011-1482: I want to make things right. Do you think we can meet again? Talk things through now that everything’s out in the open?
Heat flared low in my stomach, flooding my veins with something closer to panic than anticipation. The thought of seeing him again made my hair stand on end. My first instinct was a hard no, but that felt too final, too absolute. I’d barely had time to stitch myself together.
My finger traced the edge of the screen, grounding me as the voices battled for dominance.
One screamedDon’t you dare.
The other whisperedYou already know you will.
And then came a smaller thought.
This time could be different.
There would be no surprises. No more horrific secrets dragged into the light. Just possibility. Fragile, trembling, waiting in the ashes of everything that had burned.
I wrote the message with uncertain fingers.
With a release that felt like stepping off a cliff, I hit send.
Me: Okay.
The reply came fast—too fast.
(555) 011-1482: Do you think tomorrow works? We could have dinner at my place.
My pulse stuttered. Tomorrow.
Too soon,my heart warned.
But then a small mercy surfaced—tomorrow was already claimed. Candace and I had our standing end-of-month Sundayritual. Nails, lunch, gossip—our usual reset button after weeks of chaos.
Me: I can’t. Tomorrow’s my day with Candace. We have a thing.
(555) 011-1482: Of course. I don’t want to interrupt your plans.
A pause.
Then—
(555) 011-1482: What about Monday? The thought of waiting until next weekend… sucks.
A shaky breath escaped.
Monday.
A weeknight.
Arguably the least romantic night of the week.
A day set aside for business, not dates.
And wasn’t that what this was now? Business between two people trying to start over.
Me: Monday works.
I hit send before I could overthink it. The message landed, small and final, like a heartbeat in the dark.
