Paul rolled to check the screen. I followed his gaze.
"Elizabeth."
No emoji, no label like "Mom" or "Sis" to ease the mind.
Just the name, white on black, stark and blinding.
He answered.
"Hey." His voice shifted.
Not tone or style, but something deeper, like an internal switch flipped channels.
He tossed the covers, got up, back to me, heading across the room, voice low. I caught fragments. "...I know... no... I said..."
I sat up, wrapping the sheet around me, watching his back.
Paul Vincent's back was a sight—broad shoulders, clean waistline, skin honey-gold in the light. First time I saw him was at the library cafe, him at the counter waiting for a latte, me behind. Thought hit: This guy's back has a story.
Prophet, me. Story? Yeah, just not the plot twist I expected.
He talked maybe two minutes, hung up, stood silent a few seconds like psyching himself up, then turned, hunting clothes.
"Family emergency," he said, calm. "Gotta head back now."
He had a place south of the city, twenty-minute drive. Lived there for years. I'd never been, never invited. Fact sat quiet in my brain—till now.
"Emergency," I echoed, flat. "What kind?"
"Family stuff," he said, shrugging on his shirt. "You know... family."
I knew. Bullshit. But weirdly, I had no urge to push. Not 'cause I didn't care, but 'cause I sensed the answer wouldn't be what I wanted. Draining realization.
I tugged the sheet higher. Wind slipped through the window crack, Charles River chill burrowing into my bones.
I watched him button up. Fingers quick, eyes elsewhere, mind clearly spinning.
Scene sparked a random memory. Last March, for the first time, he asked me to a classmate reunion thing. I'd had plans with friends for Saturday. He said, "Can you shift? Just this once, help me out."
I did. Then twice, three times, four.
Whenever he needed a "date" for some event, he'd call. My plans turned flexible; his were set in stone.
Once I pushed back, he gave that soft, confused look: "You don't wanna? No biggie, go do your thing, I'll solo."
Then I said, "No, no, I'll come, just saying."
And I went. Always.
Another gust hit, and I shivered, hugged the sheet tighter, alone in the bed's middle.
Then the thought hit. No dramatic epiphany, no soundtrack swell. Just a plain idea, drifting in, settling.
In this thing, I was always the one bending.
Paul dressed, last button done, grabbed jacket and keys, and headed out.
At the door, he paused, glanced back.
