For the next five days, I move as if nothing’s wrong. I work on OneDate, rewriting the same lines of code twice because I can’t remember if I already fixed them. I pull shifts at Porter’s, miscount change, pour the wrong beers so often I lose track. During the quiet moments behind the bar, my hand keeps drifting toward my phone before I stop myself. Day after day, his texts stack up unanswered. With most guys, silence does the work. You ignore them long enough and they disappear. But not Miles.
It’s Thursday night when the rush finally thins out. I’m wiping down the bar again, even though it’s already clean, when the door opens and Miles walks in.
“Nora.”
I flinch. Just a fraction, but enough to give me away. “Hey,” I say too brightly, eyes fixed on the bar. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.”
“I texted.”
“You did?”
“Yesterday. And the day before.”
Right. Those texts. The ones I saw and told myself I’d answer after I finished washing my hair, rearranging my living room, and organizing my kitchen. I still my hands and finally look up at him. He isn’t smiling. He doesn’t look angry either. Just… serious. The easy warmth he usually carries has dimmed, replaced by something new.
“Everything okay?” I ask, because deflection is my new favorite survival skill.
He studies me for a moment, then nods once. “I’m okay.” A pause stretches between us. “Are you?”
There it is. “I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He doesn’t call me on it—not right away. Instead, he steps closer and rests his hands on the edge of the bar. He doesn’t crowd me. He just plants himself there like he’s not going anywhere until we actually talk.
“You’ve been busy.” His tone is neutral.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Work. App stuff. Mom.”
“Mm-hmm.” The sound is soft. Noncommittal.
I stack coasters that don’t need stacking.
Miles exhales slowly. “Okay. So either I did something wrong… or you’re avoiding me.”
My throat tightens. “I’m not avoiding you.”
He tilts his head. “Then why does it feel like I only exist to you when we’re standing in the same room?”
Fair. I open my mouth. Close it and try again. “Can we talk later? I’ll text you.”
His gaze stays steady. “Are you actually going to message me?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Miles holds my eyes a second longer than necessary, then pushes off the bar and heads for the door.
The moment he’s gone, I finally breathe. I drop my elbows onto the bar—the wood cool and tacky beneath my skin—and bury my face in my hands. I have to talk to him. I know that. What I hate is the part where I have to peel myself open and admit I can’t do this anymore. Pretending isn’t an option now. I owe him honesty, even if it leaves me exposed in ways I’ve spent years avoiding.
“So,” Beck slides beside me. “What’s the deal with polo-shirt guy?”
“Miles?”
“Yeah. You two looked… intense.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“So you’re not a thing?”
“No.”
