Page 37 of One Room Vacancy
She flicks the tab on her can again and adds, “It’s not like I’ve ever been career-driven. I’ve just…I don’t know. I like doing things. Seeing things.”
“That’s what I love about you.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing—not angry, just startled, and wary.
I keep going, gently. “You’ve never chased a title or a paycheck. You’ve always chased experiences. You’re hell-bent on living the fullest fucking life possible, even if it means working as a human statue outside the art museum.”
Her mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “That was for, like…two weeks.”
“But you did it,” I say, shrugging. “Most people would never even think to do that. You have stories, Sage. You have memories people spend their whole lives wishing they were brave enough to make. That’s not flaky; that’s fearless.”
She blinks, then takes another sip—slower this time. When she sets the can down again, her voice is quieter. “Still not buying the bar.”
But she doesn’t say it with the same finality. It sounds less like a decision and more like a shield. And I don’t push, even though I want to. Because I know her well enough to recognize when something’s cracking open.
NINE
SAGE
The apartment is too quiet.
Not in a bad way, necessarily, just in a “this is new” kind of way. The TV hums in the background, some reality show neither of us is really paying attention to, and there’s a half-empty takeout spread on the coffee table. I’m curled into the far end of the couch with my legs tucked under me, balancing a carton of noodles in one hand and my chopsticks in the other.
Gabe’s at the other end, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, flipping through sauce packets like he’s conducting an interview.
We haven’t said much since we got home. A few comments about traffic, an offhand remark about the dumplings. Laughter, quiet and quick, over something dumb someone said on TV. It’s the most normal night we’ve had…ever?
Except, it’s not normal.
The equilibrium is off, and I feel like it is completely my fault.
I’m the one who insisted on the no-sex rule, so for me to be the one to crack under the pressure of it—well, that’s not exactly something I take pride in.
Except…it’s Gabe.
Which means pretending like I’m not thinking about last week, about every week before that, is like pretending I don’t notice when he walks around the apartment half-dressed and damp from the shower. Like pretending I don’t still know exactly how he sounds when he?—
I stab my chopsticks into the noodles a little harder than necessary.
He glances over, catching the motion out of the corner of his eye. “You okay over there?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Just trying to get a piece of broccoli.”
He says nothing at first, just watches me for a second too long before going back to his sauce packets: one elbow resting on his knee, brow furrowed like the fate of dinner depends on picking the right one.
“Sage.”
I look up.
“Do you want the sweet and sour or the chili garlic?”
“Why are you asking me like this is a hostage negotiation?”
“Because it is. There’s only one of each.”
I blink. “You’re the one who ordered five different sauces.”
“For variety,” he says, deadpan. “But now I have regrets. I didn’t expect to like all of them.”
