I still reply when he texts, but I never initiate. I don’t check in, send him random drone memes, ask about his day, or vent about my latest OneDate meltdown. All because the New Year’s Eve kiss refuses to leave me alone. It ambushes me in the worst places—while I’m debugging code, restocking the bar, brushing my teeth—my brain helpfully replays the exact way his fingers dimpled my waist. Or how easily my body fit against his. And especially his lips pressed against mine. Soft, yet in control.
None of it felt like practice. It felt… real. And real is dangerous. Real is how you end up hoping for things you already know won’t work. Real is what stays long enough to matter and then leaves when things get hard. Besides, this isn’t about me. It’s about him. Miles needs real dates. A woman who isn’t an emotionally tangled mess with commitment issues, a mom with a chronic illness, and a brain that treats vulnerability like a suspicious pop-up ad. He needs confidence. Practice. Someone who doesn’t flinch when something feels good. He doesn’t need me.
While working a closing shift at Porter’s, my phone buzzes with a message. Since it’s slow, I pull it out and see it’s from Miles.
Miles
I have great news! I got offered a technical mapping contract job in Arizona. It’s a pretty big job. I’ll be gone for the rest of January and most of February.
I read his words twice. My stomach twists with an uncomfortable mix of ache and relief. Distance. Time. A clean break from whatever this almost-something was becoming. This is good.
Nora
That’s amazing, Miles! Congratulations. That sounds like a huge opportunity for you.
Miles
Thank you. I ran the numbers twice and it’s… objectively a very good career decision.
Miles
I’ll still have my phone. We’ll be in different time zones, but I can text when I’m not flying or processing data.
Nora
Of course. That makes sense.
Miles
I know things have been a little quieter lately, so I didn’t want you to think I just disappeared.
Nora
I appreciate you telling me. Safe travels, okay?
Miles
I will. And, uh… if you have any OneDate crises while I’m gone, or anything, I’m still here.
Nora
I’ll keep that in mind.
Nora
Congratulations again, Miles.
I shove my phone back into my pocket. A Miles detox. I won’t miss him. I’ll barely notice. Instead, I’ll focus on my app. On Mom. Or on work. On literally anything except how his laugh sounds when he forgets to filter himself. And I definitely won’t open OneDate and click on his profile to see how many women have requested him—or how many dates he’s arranged. Definitely not. This is fine. Healthy even. This is me being a responsible adult. I just wish being responsible didn’t feel so much like losing something I never technically had.
Sleep dodged me all night—partly because of Miles, partly because OneDate refuses to behave. After half a pot of coffee and an alarming number of Atomic Fireballs, I managed to put out the major fires. The minor ones, though, kept popping up like a relentless game of whack-a-mole.
By Friday night, Porter’s hits hard. It’s the bar’s annual Cupid Is Cancelled: Anti-Valentine’s Day Party, which is always packed, always loud, and since I’m dateless anyway, I might as well work. Glasses clink too loudly, the spray gun burns icy against my palm, and all the voices blur into one demanding roar as everyone rushes the bar. I’m pretty sure I’m an octopus short six arms.
“Another beer!”
“No lime.”
“Extra lime.”
