Too much. Delete.
Miles
Your mom has excellent humor.
Weird. Delete.
Miles
I’m glad you didn’t throw my controller into the woods.
I huff out a laugh. Then I pause with my thumb over send. This is more like friendly banter than the business relationship we’ve developed. I stare at the unsent message, then delete it. Slowly. I set the phone face down on the counter. Focus on the practical, Miles. I lift my phone again and type out a new message.
Miles
Maybe we can get together soon for more practice lessons before the date with my family.
The message whooshes away, and my stomach immediately ceases. We just saw each other; what if it’s too soon?
Three dots appear.
Nora
Lessons? Should I be giving you a final exam afterward?
Miles
Do you think I need a final exam?
Nora
I’m teasing. I’m free tomorrow, but can we meet at your place?
Miles
Okay. 6 p.m.?
Nora
Perfect. Text me your address.
After sending her my address, I set an alarm before shoving my phone into my pocket. Tomorrow at six. I should start making plans for our dating lesson, but instead my mind drifts to her mom and the way her voice cracked on “I’m flying.” I pull my phone back out. This time, I don’t open my messages. I open my notes app and add a reminder:
Research MS.
I stare at it, then add another line under it:
Ask Nora what I can do to help make her mom smile more.
The problem with Nora is she’s all sharp edges, sarcasm, and stubbornness, but underneath, she’s softer than she lets herself be. Yesterday, just for a minute, I saw it. I lock my phone and let it rest in my palm, unsure what she’ll want to do—or what she’ll want from me—but I’m certain about what I’m going to do. I’ll show up, offer more drone flights, and I’ll keep making her laugh, even when she tries not to.
Morning comes too fast after a sleepless night. I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, running through what needs to be done. First on the list: the library. Neither of them should have to handle this alone. After a quick shower, I grab my keys and head across town with a plan already forming.
The automatic doors slide open, and I’m hit with a faint citrus cleaner scent mixed with old paper. The soft hush of turning pages and distant footsteps on carpet is calming. Which is good, because the second Diane’s voice pops into my head—This was my favorite day—my throat tightens like a jammed gimbal, and I swallow hard. Maybe I could cook a meal for them or bring something more substantial than snacks to our next drone day. In the cooking section, I pull a thick cookbook from the shelf and flip it open. Chickpeas. Salmon. Nuts. Whole grains. I’m midway through a section titled “Simple Mediterranean Meals You Can Make in Minutes” when a familiar voice catches my attention.
“Hi, Miles.”
My shoulders tense as I glance up. Maggie stands a few feet away, a stack of books cradled in her arms, wearing a cream cardigan that makes her look like she belongs in a cozy book nook on a rainy day.
