Page 133 of Your Place or Mine

Of overstepping. Of being the one who made the first move, only to be met with silence.

I hated how that old wound reopened so easily.

Sighing, I tossed my phone onto the couch and forced myself back into the apartment makeover. Distraction was my only salvation right now.

The place looked… cute. Cozy, even.

Gone were the tired mustard curtains that had clung to the window like soggy spaghetti. I’d replaced them with linen panels in a soft oatmeal color that let the light pour in like honey. Now painted sage green, my thrifted bookshelf sat under the big window overlooking Main Street. I’d lined the shelves with a mix of my mom’s favorite novels and the ones I swore I’d read someday.

A little round table sat in the corner now. It was vintage, a little wobbly, but perfect. I'd sanded the legs, painted them matte navy, and added two mismatched chairs I’d recovered in floral fabric—the kind that looked like your grandma’s kitchen chairs but better.

The kitchenette was still tragic, but I’d added a pegboard for hanging mugs and painted the drawers a cheery robin’s egg blue. It didn’t fix the wonky stove or the humming fridge, but it made the space feel more like mine.

And the bed…well, I’d upgraded. Nothing fancy. Just fresh sheets, a cloud-soft comforter, and a pile of pillows that made it feel like I was crashing at a boutique hotel instead of an ancient studio above a bakery.

It was mine. Every tiny fix. Every paint stain on my forearm. I would scour secondhand stores every afternoon to find pieces that felt likehome.

It was finally starting to feel like I belonged here.

Until I saw Melanie’s car parked out front.

My heart did this weird lurch in my chest—excited, confused, and suddenly panicked. She hadn’t said anything about coming by. But there it was, her car, parked crooked in the space right beneath my window.

I leaned over the sill and scanned the sidewalk.

No sign of her.

Maybe she’d gone into the bookstore?

I slipped on my sandals and padded downstairs, expecting to find her inside, browsing romance novels with a latte in hand. But the bookstore was dark. Locked up. Closed until tomorrow.

I grabbed my keys, left my apartment, and walked the length of the block.

No Melanie.

That’s when it hit me.

A sudden, unshakable gut feeling that had my stomach tightening.

She wasn’t in the bookstore.

She wasn’t in my apartment.

Which meant…

“Oh no,” I breathed, turning on my heel.

She’d gone to the Rusty Stag.

Panic hit me like a rogue wave. The kind that sneaks up and pulls your feet out from under you before you even realize the tide changed.

I speed-walked up the block, heart thumping, every worst-case scenario flashing through my brain like a doom slideshow.

What if she was confronting him?

What if shetold himI’d been spiraling, that I missed him, that I was starting to fall for a man who’d already shut the door?

What if she said too much?

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