“Sounds like someone you like.”
“I mean—yeah. As a friend.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do friends look at each other the way you two do?”
“I don’t know what look you’re talking about.”
She chuckles. “Is that why you’re blushing?”
“I’m not blushing.”
“You absolutely are.”
A sigh slips out. “Fine. He’s easy to like—as a friend. He’s just… not my type.”
“And what do all your types have in common?” she asks.
I grimace.
“They broke your heart,” she finishes for me. “Maybe he’s different for a reason.”
I push myself off the couch and bend to kiss her cheek. “Alright, that’s my cue to leave.”
She smiles. “Miles is boyfriend material.”
“Maybe,” I murmur. “For someone.” Definitely not for me.
Later, at home, I’m standing in front of the sink, washing dishes, when my phone buzzes on the counter; the screen lights up with Miles’s name. I don’t pick it up. Instead, I keep rinsing the same mug, my thumb tracing the crack in the ceramic as if it’ll give me instructions on what to do with my life. My arm still feels warm where his hand rested earlier. Usually, it’s a warmth that fades fast. But his lingers like a notification I can’t swipe away.
For years, I’ve dated the same type of man. Cocky. Emotionally unavailable in a way that felt safe. Every time it was five months, max. Just long enough to stay interesting, just short enough to leave before anything could get complicated. But today wasn’t complicated. It was… easy. He looked at me like I wasn’t a puzzle to solve or a problem to manage. Only a person worth noticing.
I flip the mug upside down on the rack and glance at my phone again. I don’t open the text. I don’t want to know what he said because if I read it, I might have to answer honestly. My pulse picks up as the thought sneaks in anyway. Wanting him. Really wanting him. The kind of wanting that cracks my heart open after I’ve spent years keeping it carefully contained.
The phone buzzes again, and I let it sit there. Heartbreak is scary, but the possibility of something real showing up is scarier.
Ten
Dating Lessons
Miles
All morning, Nora and Diane linger in my thoughts. Yesterday’s drone flying was a success—Diane is an incredible woman. Strong. Vibrant. Full of life. And Nora has all those same qualities. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
I’ve been flying drones for years, everything from real estate footage to sports promos to sweeping cinematic passes over forests or cities at sunrise, but yesterday wasn’t about footage—or even a fake date with Nora—it was about Diane forgetting her body for a minute. I don’t know all of her struggles. I don’t need to. The gleam in her eyes told me enough. For that moment, she was free.
I open the fridge, pull out a bottle of water, and take a long drink. I didn’t do it for praise. I did it because Nora asked—well, not exactly asked. More like a simple trade. Except nothing about Nora is simple. She’s chaos that pretends it isn’t chaos—bright smile, steady voice, as if everything is under control even when it clearly isn’t. She showed up at the field beaming, probably for her mom more than for me, but I’ll take the smallest fraction of it as mine. Every time Diane smiled, Nora smiled wider. Of course I noticed. My brain is built for noticing.
It started the year I got my first drone. One that shouldn’t have come back in one piece. I’d been flying along the river after a storm, chasing footage between gusts, when it started to yaw—just a hair. The motors sounded fine, but if you were listening carefully, there was a buzz that wasn’t supposed to be there. I brought it down on the riverbank on instinct. After climbing through the woods and over rocks to get to it, I noticed one motor was warmer than the rest. Another minute in the air and it would’ve seized and dropped straight into the river like a stone.
Ever since then, I don’t just watch a flight. I read it. A tremor in a motor. A drift in a hover. The way the drone corrects itself when the wind hits. Tiny imbalances that mean something’s off even if nobody else can see it. So when Diane laughed, the corners of Nora’s smile tightened. It’s impossible not to notice Nora. Even when she isn’t trying to draw attention, she quietly beckons it.
When we finally packed up and said our goodbyes, Nora’s smile was tight at the edges, but real. She thanked me as if I’d done something extraordinary when all I did was what I love. But Nora hugged me as if it was the most important thing in the world.
I lean against the counter and stare at my phone, my thumb hovering over the messages like if I concentrate hard enough, Nora might suddenly appear there. I sent her two texts last night. No response. They were simple. One telling her I hoped she’d had a good day. Another saying I hoped her mom had too. Harmless. Normal. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she missed them. Maybe they vanished into the void where perfectly reasonable texts go to die. Now I debate sending a third.
Miles
Your mom is amazing.
