By the time I’m getting home and collapsing onto my couch, he’s usually just starting dinner service.
Still, we do what we can to make it work.
Late one night, after I shower off the scent of the bar where I got drinks with Kara after my shift atDolce, I end up curled on my couch with my laptop balanced on the coffee table in front of me.
And every single time I settle into this position, without fail, I open the bookmarked travel site and typeVancouverinto the search bar like some strange little ritual.
The prices are…notencouraging.
Round-trip tickets flash across the screen with numbers that make my stomach drop. The cheaper ones feel wildly irresponsible when I’ve only just quit my job and started something new. Custom orders have started trickling in, but I’m still working to get caught up.
And the more expensive one? Forget about it.
I stare at the options anyway: early morning departures, red-eyes, flights with two layovers that take almost an entire day—every option the travel site is willing to show me.
I hover over the “select” button more than once, but then always close the tab. The truth is, even if I could afford to go right now, I’m not entirely sure I should.
Alex hasn’t exactly invited me.
Not that he’s said anything to make me think he wouldn’t want me there. If anything, he’s the one constantly telling me how much he misses me first, while I try to play it off like I’m way cooler than I am.
I’m honestly dying to see him, but flying to another country to see someone you technically aren’t even dating feels like a bold move.
One might even call it slightly unhinged.
I rest my chin on my hand and stare at the last message he sent earlier tonight.
GRUMP BUCKET:
Just got home.
Kitchen was chaos tonight.
Tell me something good.
I send him a quick snapshot of my feet covered in fuzzy socks, propped on the table next to my open laptop. A second message follows a moment later.
GRUMP BUCKET:
Wish you were here.
My chest squeezes a little at that. I want to type something back about the flights I’ve been looking at. Instead, I flip my laptop closed and set it on the bottom shelf of the coffee table.
Because if I keep staring at flight prices and rereading Alex’s messages, I might do something reckless.
I lean back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling and holding my phone to my chest.
For the first time in years, my life feels… open.
Terrifyingly, beautifully open.
I don’t have a five-year plan. But I also don’t have a miserable boss breathing down my neck anymore or a job that slowly drains every ounce of joy out of my day.
Now I have the chance to do what I love every day, twenty-four thousand strangers on the internet watching my life unfold, and a complicated, wonderful man living half a country away.
It’s messy and uncertain, and somehow, it feels exactly right. My phone buzzes in my hand again.
GRUMP BUCKET:
