Page 31 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“I will.” My throat tightens. “You too.”
Ben stands to grab his suitcase, then thorns to me. He hesitates for a moment, then finally says, “You made this week a lot better than it should’ve been.”
“Same.”
He smiles, and then he’s gone. I sit on the bed and wonder what the fuck happened.
This wasn’t love. But it was the reminder I needed—that I can feel something again. That I can start over.
And that maybe it’s worth it to chase happiness, even if my life feels complete.
CHAPTER 16
BEN
The city looks smallerwhen you’re flying back into it.
From the plane window, New York is a grid of frost and gray, the East River is like a streak of dull metal under the morning light.
By the time I grab my suitcase from baggage claim, I’ve already switched back into autopilot: call a car, check my emails, scroll through messages from my team that all start withnot urgent but quick question.
It’s like stepping back into something that hasn’t changed in the week I’ve been gone. I’ve changed, though.
The snow from last week hasn’t melted, just turned into dirty slush that clings to the edges of sidewalks.
I should go home, but instead, I text my sister.
Me
Landed. Are you guys at mom’s?
She replies almost immediately.
Jess
Yes. Kids just went down for their nap. Come over
My childhood home is in Connecticut, about an hour outside the city. It takes me closer to two to get to them with the holiday traffic, but I don’t mind. I need the time to decompress, to figure out why everything feels like it’s slightly tilted off its axis.
I know the answer, but maybe if I think hard enough I can come up with other excuses to make me feel less pathetic.
When my ride finally pulls up into the driveway, my sister is already standing on the porch in a puffy jacket, waving at me like it’s been years since she last saw me. She also lives in the city and we have a habit of seeing each other at least once a week.
“You look tan,” she says as soon as I step out of the car.
“I would hope so, since I just spent time in the Caribbean,” I remind her. “That’s kind of the point.”
She hugs me anyway. “You also look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“So then what’s the point of a vacation? If you’re coming back more tired than you went into it?” She takes my suitcase because she’s never not an eldest daughter and walks back into the house, dropping it off in the small entryway by the garage door.
Inside, the smell of coffee and something cinnamon-y hits me immediately. It reminds me of all the Christmases we’ve spent in this house—growing up as kids huddled around the tree on Christmas morning opening presents like feral animals, the quiet mornings a few years after our dad died. And then the joy that came back to our lives once the twins were born.
The house was always warm, cozy, full of noise that makes it feel alive—the soft hum of the TV in the background, my mother humming while she embroiders, my brother-in-law typing in the next room, probably working from home instead of going to an office during these in-between days. It’s domestic in a way that feels almost foreign to me now.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, heading to the back of the house. She’s at the kitchen table, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She looks up when I walk in.
