Page 33 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
I stood there a moment longer, my farmer’s market score forgotten, pulse ticking at my temple. I didn’t know what the call was about. It wasn’t my business.
Still, I found myself staring at the empty balcony.
After a moment, I put the fresh basil and thyme on the kitchen counter and walked to my bedroom.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the annotated slide deck I'd submitted yesterday. A handful of editorial comments had come through, mostly formatting, a few suggestions about streamlining the messaging on slides nine through twelve. I made it through half of them before I glanced at my watch.
6:05.
I blinked. No pot clatter, no whiff of garlic or butter in the air. I usually treated Liam’s 5:30 dinner prep as my cue to start wrapping things up. Like an unofficial roommate alarm clock. But the apartment was still quiet.
"He must be out," I said softly, clicking through to one last comment.
I remembered I needed to be at Nolan and Brooke’s by seven to watch the girls. "I better eat something first."
I pushed my chair back and walked toward the kitchen. As I rounded the corner, I stopped short.
Liam was sitting at the counter, back to me. A half-eaten bowl was in front of him.
I froze, straightening my posture. Like I’d walked into a meeting I didn’t realize had started.
What should I say? Welcome home?
No. It’s his home.
How was the road trip?
They won both games. I already know that.
I shifted my weight and cleared my throat slightly, but he didn’t react.
That’s when I noticed the earbuds.
I didn’t want to startle him. I stepped past him toward the fridge, pulling out the leftovers from lunch. As I turned, he glanced up. I smiled. Opened my mouth.
He pointed to his ears and gave a little shrug.
Right. Listening to something.
I nodded, understanding, and turned back to the microwave. It hummed to life as I leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
No teasing. No raised eyebrow. Not even a Post-it.
The microwave beeped. I carried my plate to the dining table and sat down. Liam finished his meal in silence, rinsed his bowl at the sink, loaded it into the dishwasher, turned it on, and disappeared down the hall without a word.
I ate alone, chewing slowly.
After clearing my plate and wiping down the counter, I grabbed my keys and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind me.
When I got back, the apartment was dark except for the under-cabinet light in the kitchen. The coffee pot wasn’t set up for the morning. The dishwasher had finished its cycle, but the clean dishes were still inside, steam clinging faintly to the glassware.
I hung my coat, kicked off my shoes, and stood there for a moment, listening. His door was closed.
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual. I lingered in my room, half expecting to hear the sound of the kettle or the low thump of cabinets opening and closing. Nothing.
When I finally stepped out, the kitchen was spotless. No clatter of utensils. No faint scent of coffee.
There was only one mug on the counter. His, washed and drying on the rack.
