Then I looked away. “That was a long time ago,” I said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
It wasn’t an answer. It was meant to end the conversation.
It didn’t.
“And William… that was before Astrid,” she said. Something in the way she said it made the air shift, subtle but unmistakable.
She smiled, faint and nostalgic, almost dangerous. “Sometimes I wonder,” she added, letting the words linger between us, “what would’ve happened if things had been different back then.”
I leaned back, folding my arms loosely, more out of habit than comfort. “Different how?”
Her smile softened, but her eyes didn’t. “Just imagine it. If either of us had—” She trailed off, exhaling lightly. “We’d probably be—”
She didn’t finish, and I didn’t help her. I knew what she meant; it didn’t take much to figure it out. Instead, I reached for my coffee, taking a slow sip, because finishing that sentence would’ve meant acknowledging something I had no intention of touching.
—?—
A month after the reunion, she reached out again.
Small messages at first, harmless questions, little memories she suddenly remembered. And although I was careful, although a part of me wanted to keep my distance, another part of me didn’t.
Talking to her felt effortless, almost nostalgic, like slipping back into a version of myself I hadn’t been in years. It reminded me of simpler times: college hallways, late-night basketball games, deadlines that didn’t crush me the way dozens of massive projects do now.
Phoebe lived out of town and had never attended any of our reunions before, the last reunion had been her first time joining. After the reunion, I never saw her again in person. But even if she had lived in the same city, I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to meet her.
My job kept me moving from city to city, living out of suitcases and temporary hotel rooms. And whenever I was home, of course I chose to spend my time with my wife and family rather than anyone else.
But then one day, Phoebe came to Michigan. She asked if I could meet her because there was something important she needed to talk about, something she couldn’t discuss over a call or through chat.
At the café, she looked smaller than I remembered. She told me about her divorce, the debts, and her children, about how she barely got to see them anymore. Then came the part she said quietly, almost as if she were afraid the words might break her again, about the years of hidden bruises she covered with makeup and the violence she endured inside a marriage no one knew was falling apart.
“I know this is a lot, Adrian. I know you don’t owe me anything. But I need help. Just until I can stand again.”She hesitated before adding, “Six months. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
I took a breath, weighing the past against the life I had now.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll help. Until you get back on your feet.”
Her shoulders eased, and her eyes softened as she whispered, “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”
I told myself it was nothing. Just a good deed. A small kindness. Nothing more.
And after our last meeting, I thought that was it. But she kept slipping back into my life, little by little. At first, it was harmless, just casual conversations between old friends. Then the messages grew warmer, lighter, a little too playful. Before long, it felt like we were maintaining some kind of long-distancesomething. Not a relationship, but not just friendship either. Something in the gray, something I should’ve shut down before it became a crack in the life I’d built.
And maybe that was the problem. The thrill I felt around Phoebe wasn’t desire. It was a fleeting rush, a pathetic echo of youth, the ego-boost of being wanted the way I once was in college. A nostalgia for a version of myself I should’ve outgrown.
But what happened at the hotel... that was never something I planned.
I was out of town for a project inspection, and by coincidence, the site was in the same city where Phoebe lived. She dropped by my hotel that evening, asking if we could grab dinner.
We walked together, looking for a restaurant near the hotel. After dinner, we ended up at a bar. We drank more than we should have, the kind of drinking that blurs judgment and weakens resolve.
Alcohol fogged my thoughts, and loneliness has a way of whispering lies in your ear. I remember the softness of her lipswhen she kissed me outside the bar, and the brief second I pulled back. I remember the way my back hit the wall of my hotel room. Her fingers tugging at my shirt. And then nothing but blurred heat—a mistake, a moment of weakness, and the single decision I would spend years regretting.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Phoebe was naked beside me.
“Fuck.” The word scraped out of me like gravel.
I lurched off the bed, nearly tripping as I grabbed my pants.
