Page 13 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

“Who said I was running from anything?”

“People who just like a city say they like the food, or the weather, or a job they got.” He turns his coffee cup in his hands. “They don't talk about intentional choices.”

I hate that he's right. I look at my coffee. “Former relationship. Nothing dramatic.”

The short version. What I don't say: I left because staying felt like keeping a room set for someone who'd already left. Portland was easier. Nobody there knew what anything had looked like before.

“Mm.” He nods at the strip below us like that's a completely normal thing to say, which I appreciate more than I should from someone I met a few days ago.

“What about you?” I say. “Vegas.”

He exhales, not quite a sigh, more like he's landing somewhere. “I've been in twenty-three cities in twelve years. Army, then construction, then real estate. Different reasons every time, same result.” He looks at the view. “You stop noticing what it feels like to leave somewhere until you realize you haven't thought about a place once after you left it.”

“And Vegas is different.”

“Vegas is where the deal is.” A pause. “But yeah. Maybe different.”

“Because Connor's here.”

“Because I'm tired.” He says it simply, no drama in it. “Of the packing up. The two-month lease. Not knowing anyone's name at the coffee shop.” He glances over, more unguarded than he probably intended. “There's a point where staying somewhere starts to feel like the brave thing.”

I know that point. I don't say so. Portland was never the plan. It was where I landed after Andrew. Far enough from Connecticut and Connor’s world, from the house I grew up and everything that happened there, that I could tell myself I was building something real.

Jules, my college roommate who watched the whole messy implosion, still teases me about it. She says I moved three thousand miles just to prove I could disappear properly. Five years later my landlord still chases me down every time I’m up for renewal. I just never know how long I’m staying. I keep waiting for a reason to leave before one finds me first.

Three clients who mostly respect boundaries and one who sends “quick thoughts” at 11:47 p.m. A landlord who still mispronounces my last name after years and leaves passive-aggressive notes about recycling in the lobby. The Tuesday morning run I take when the coffee shop downstairs gets too crowded and loud. The woman at the corner market who started setting aside the good sourdough because I always buy it on Fridays.

The way Portland rain settles into everything by February—sweaters, sidewalks, moods. The four o’clock stripe of pale light across my desk that means I’ve been working too long again. The ficus by the window I’ve somehow kept alive for three years despite forgetting it exists half the time.

It’s not a big life. But it’s mine. Built instead of borrowed.

“So you want roots,” I say instead.

“I want to stop running the numbers on whether somewhere is worth staying.” He tilts his head at the strip. “Which is probably the same thing.”

We sit with that for a minute. Below us, the strip goes on, relentless, unapologetic, a city with no interest in anyone's inner monologue.

“You noticed,” I say. “About my ex.”

Liam shrugs.

“Hard not to. You brought it up.”

“Obliquely.”

“I noticed.”

At some point I look at the time and we've been out here for nearly two hours and I've barely touched my client inbox.

“You're easy to talk to,” I tell him. I say it the way I'd say the sky is blue, a simple observation, nothing loaded.

He looks at me sideways. “That's not a compliment where you come from, is it?”

“It's a fact. I haven't decided yet if it's a problem.”

He smiles at that, and I look back at the view because that smile is exactly what my system forgot to account for.

He doesn't mention Andrew. I don't mention Andrew. I stop checking the time. I stop thinking about work.