I groan and fall backward on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “He’s busy making me coffee, I can hear the mugs. Brè, I think he might be…domestic.”
She gasps. “The horror!”
“Stop it,” I laugh. “I need to get my head on straight. I came here to write an article, not catch a case of the small-town swoons.”
“Oh please,” Brè snorts. “You always do this. You run every time something starts to feel real. Maybe this time you should just... stay.”
“Says the woman who booked a two-year gap year and proceeded to eat, pray, and screw her way through six continents.”
“Excuse you, I saved on accommodation and food costs. That’s called being financially savvy.”
I snort. “You had a boyfriend in every time zone.”
“God forbid a woman be Head of Global Communications,” she says dryly. “Catch flights, not feelings, my love—unless it’s you. And don’t blame me—it’s a hereditary condition. Remember my aunt who dated a plumber, bricklayer, carpenter, landscaper and electrician in perfect order, just to get her house renovated?”
I laugh so hard I have to sit up. “Man, I envy her co-ordination skills.” I giggle.
“She’s my hero.” Brè muses like a proud fan girl.
We both fall into fits of laughter, the easy kind only two lifelong best friends can share.
But when the laughter fades, there’s a silence. The kind that holds meaning.
“So what happens now?” Brè asks, sounding hopeful.
The question brings me crashing back to reality. “Nothing. I'm still leaving as soon as my passport arrives and I start Olympic training. This doesn't change anything.”
“Doesn't it, though?” Her voice softens. “Mia, I've known you for years. I've never heard you sound like this about a guy before.”
I fidget with the edge of the blanket. “Like what?”
“Like maybe you've found something worth staying for.”
“I can't stay,” I say automatically, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears. “We’re two completely different people on different schedules, my swim career—”
“There are pools in Texas, you know. And you can write from anywhere in the world.”
I stand up, pacing the small confines of the guest room. “It's not that simple.”
“It could be,” she counters. “If you'd let it.” The words hang thick between us.
“Seriously,” Brè says softly now, “if he makes you feel safe, seen and clearly stupidly happy, maybe don’t run this time. Just... just think about it.”
I don’t answer. Because I’m already thinking about it.
Too much.
There's a soft knock on my door, and my pulse immediately quickens.
“I have to go Brè.”
“Take the leap my love” she says softly.
I hesitate, torn between the safety of my carefully planned life and the terrifying unknown that Grant Taylor represents. “I'll... consider it.”
“That's a start.” She makes a kissing sound through the phone. “Go get your cowboy. And no muscle cream mishaps!” She yells through the phone.
I laugh, ending the call.
