“I’m back in town tomorrow,” she says, voice strained. “Helping Ash with your surprise gallery.” Her mouth twitches, then she blurts, forcing the words past a blockage, “I promise.”
“Thank you. Thank you. I knew I could trust you.” Relief floods in, chased immediately by guilt at the impossible spot I’ve put her in.
Therapy taught me to spot the cycle, but it doesn’t stop just because you know you’re in it. It stops when you’re brave enough to break it.
I just hope I’m not too late.
CHAPTER 28
ASH
The air feels electric,and my heart won’t shut up. After weeks of planning, falling down a surprisingly deep vein of balloon-arch videos, and putting a dent in my savings I might never recover from, it’s finally here.
The setup is perfect—every “t” crossed, every “i” dotted.
But the more polished it gets, the harder it is not to notice I’ve left Kael out of every meaningful decision. Then there’s the problem of his mood.
I misjudged how deeply ending Alistair’s patronage would hit him. He’s quiet, withdrawn, a shadow of his usual bright self. I try being supportive by giving him space, but that makes me acutely aware that all I’m doing is pretending my “nagging worry” is just a nag.
He’s been painting at the studio all day. That’s what he does. It’s what he loves, and I love that about him. But today his absence feels different… ominous.
The event doesn’t start until eight. Our six-thirty dinner reservation is across the street, at a carefully chosen spot that makes the surprise part easy. Jenny and Jamal will wrangle early arrivals. After dinner, I’ll suggest we check out the cool gallery across the way. He’ll see his own work in the window, hisown name on the sign. He’ll walk into a room full of people who love and admire him.
What could go wrong?
The question is a discordant note in the symphony of my meticulously crafted plans. Kael’s mood isn’t a dip in the stock market; it’s a free fall.
Work offers a temporary distraction. Since my demotion, I’ve clung to the novelty of a new role, and for a few days it cushioned the blow. The manager is nice. The team is nice. I’m still a cog, just turning a different part of the Query machine.
Then my first paycheck arrived, and it was smaller than my most pessimistic projections. It reminds me that escaping my family’s financial past is like escaping gravity: possible, but unlikely. I tell myself a smaller Query paycheck is better than most.
I fight the urge to text Kael and bury myself in email instead. My schedule is lighter now, which has only traded back-to-back meetings for time to overthink. Writing “important” emails eats thirty, sometimes sixty minutes. I let myself open my FIRE spreadsheet once at lunch. Nothing’s changed. The dashboard still shows a freedom date I can’t wrap my head around. I deleted the party cat GIF, leaving an empty white space where it used to celebrate and turning each time I check the spreadsheet into a microdose of dread.
By five, the distraction wears off. As soon as I shut my laptop, everything rushes back.
I call Kael.
He doesn’t answer. He never answers at the studio, but today, the silence tips over into confirmation of every worst-case scenario my brain can invent.
I call Jenny. Call Jamal. Call Tom. Call the caterer. Everyone is ready. Everything is perfect.
Except the one person who matters.
Pacing my apartment—now our apartment, even if his stuff hasn’t fully migrated—the nerves build like a forgotten pressure cooker. Takeout containers litter the coffee table. A mountain of my gym clothes looms in the corner, their faint odor now undeniable thanks to Kael’s commentary.
One of his mugs is still in the sink with paint-smudged near the handle. I pick it up to rinse it, then set it back down when I picture his mouth there and realize I don’t want to wipe away the proof that he lives here.
The thought of opening my laptop again to research cleaners is unbearable.
So I do the unthinkable and start cleaning myself. It’s the only kind of control I’ve got while everything else feels like it’s slipping.
My phone rings, and Kael’s name flashes across the screen. In the depths of my darkening worry, a spark of hope flickers.
“Hey!” I force a casual tone, trying to mask the panic clenching my throat. “How’s it going?”
“I am so sorry,” he says, his voice strained, and my breath catches. “I know tonight is important to you, but something’s come up. I can’t make dinner at six-thirty.” The image of standing alone at his gallery, surrounded by his friends, swallows me whole. Before I can unleash a torrent of questions, Kael adds, “I can be there at seven fifty-five.”
Oddly specific. Oddly perfect.
