Page 23

A DRUNK POSSUM

LUKE

It’s been three days.

Seventy-two hours of replaying every second in Stella’s bedroom like a guy who doesn’t understand how things went sideways when they felt so right.

I called her the next morning.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted back five hours later.

“I just need space. I’m sorry.”

Space.

That word might as well be a closed door.

I haven’t reached out again. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say. Sorry for caring? Sorry for staying the night? Sorry for thinking we were actually getting somewhere?

I scrub a hand down my face, pacing the length of my apartment like it might help settle the frustration that’s been building in my chest since that night.

Claire hasn’t helped. She showed up again yesterday, acting like the rebrand conversation we had was some kind of green light instead of a red stop sign wrapped in barbed wire.

She made some offhand comment about how she and I “always found our way back to each other.”

Like we’re fate instead of a mistake I’ve already paid for once.

Part of me wants to yell. The other part wants to throw my phone out the window.

As if the universe senses I’m about to regret paying for a new phone, it vibrates on the counter.

Hesitant at first, I contemplate ignoring it. But what if it’s Stella?

Alex:

Wade’s in town. You’re not allowed to wallow. 7 p.m. Back booth. Don’t make us come get you.

I roll my eyes. He’s not even subtle.

Not really in the mood.

His response comes instantly.

That’s exactly why you’re coming.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard like I might find the right excuse this time. But I don’t. Because he’s right. I am wallowing. And if anyone can cut through my bullshit tonight, it’s Wade.

I toss my phone onto the couch and grab my jacket. No one ever really wants to be rescued from a spiral. But maybe I can at least stop the freefall.

Besides, I need a beer or two. And maybe some perspective.

And even if I don’t say it out loud, part of me hopes that by the time I leave The Trading Post tonight, I’ll know what the hell to do next.

The Trading Post smells like beer, grilled onions, and bad decisions.

It’s exactly what I need.

Alex is already at our usual booth when I walk in, half-slouched, half-smug, nursing a beer like it’s a part-time job. He raises his glass in a silent greeting and nods toward the bar.

“I took the night off, and somehow I’m still at work,” he says as I slide into the booth.

“Could’ve fooled me,” I reply, grabbing a menu I won’t use.

“You showed up. I win.”

Wade enters like he always does. Equal parts best man energy and golden retriever enthusiasm, like someone just told him he’s the most popular guy in the room. Again. He claps me on the shoulder, drops into the booth like he owns the place, and points at Alex.

“You wanted me to see the new neon sign. Don’t pretend this is about me.”

Alex lifts his glass. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Wade rolls his eyes and flags down the waitress.

We make it five minutes into surface-level catch-up before Wade leans back and says, “Alright. What’s wrong with our boy’s personality tonight?”

Alex gestures at me without missing a beat. “He’s brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“You’re brooding,” Alex says again. “He’s doing the stare-at-the-table thing.”

“I’m just tired.”

Alex raises a brow. “Tired of what, though?”

I sigh. “Stella's pushed me away. Claire is circling like a damn vulture. Neither woman is interested in anything I have to say.”

Wade blinks. “Whoa.”

Alex leans forward like he’s been waiting to sink his teeth into this. “You have to be in a relationship to break up.”

“Don’t,” I warn.

He holds up both hands. “Hey, I’m just saying. She made it pretty clear she didn’t want anything serious. You’re the one who caught feelings.”

I grit my teeth. “I didn’t catch feelings. I walked straight into them.”

Wade whistles. “Damn.”

“She panicked,” I say, not bothering to dress it up. “One minute we’re having a good night, the next I’m being told I need to leave.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess—she came at you with a ‘this is too much’ speech and ghosted while you were still in the emotional afterglow?”

I shoot him a look. “You say that like it’s routine.”

“With her?” he says. “It is.”

Wade cuts in, more serious. “What actually happened?”

“She said it was getting too real. Said she wasn’t built for it.”

Alex shrugs. “She’s a grenade with good hair. And you pulled the pin, my man.”

“I didn’t think she’d explode.”

“Dude. Come on,” Alex says. “She’s been warning you since day one. Hell, she texted you to tell you she doesn’t do feelings.”

“I thought I could be the exception,” I say quietly.

Wade’s expression softens. “You thought you were the one worth staying for.”

That one hits deeper than I want it to.

“She saw Claire at the gym,” I add after a moment. “Didn’t say much at the time. But when she blew up, she mentioned her.”

Wade nods slowly. “So she thinks you’ve got unfinished business.”

“There is no business,” I say. “Claire’s not the one I want.”

Alex snorts. “Yeah, well, sometimes it’s not about facts. It’s about timing and triggers and whatever twisted little movie is playing in someone’s head.”

Wade looks at me. “What do you want?”

I hesitate. “I don’t want to let her go. But I also don’t want to chase someone who keeps running.”

Wade sips his beer. “That’s the line, isn’t it? Between patience and pride.”

Alex, in classic Alex fashion, drains his glass. “Or, more importantly, between sanity and complete emotional collapse.”

Wade laughs. “Bernie ran from me too, in her own way. Hell, I ran from her, too. I didn’t see it then, but we were both pushing each other too hard, trying to force a picture neither was ready to live in yet.

I had to stop putting Dex’s feelings over my own.

That was a hard pill to swallow. Nearly ruined it. ”

“And now you’re disgustingly in love,” Alex mutters.

Wade grins. “Exactly.”

They fall into teasing each other again, but I only half hear it. My mind is already spinning back to Stella’s face. Her walls. Her fear.

She told me over and over she wasn’t going to stay, but she never told me why.

Maybe my mistake was that I never got to the root cause of her running. And maybe now I never will.

I drain what’s left of my beer and gesture to the waitress for another.

Wade leans back, balancing his chair on two legs like he’s testing gravity. “So, Alex—you ever going to fix that back wall or just keep blaming supply chain delays?”

Alex smirks, raising his new beer. “It’s called ambiance, Wade. That wall’s got character.”

Wade snorts. “It’s got termites.”

Alex shrugs. “Artisanal ones.”

I finally crack a small smile.

“Maybe we should go climbing tomorrow,” Wade says, turning to me. “You know, to distract you from your tragic love life and Alex’s tragic design choices.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “I’ll go, but I’m not climbing. I’ll belay and critique.”

“Please,” Wade says, “You climb like a drunk possum. No one should take a thing you say at face value.”

Alex grins. “Still beat you last time.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Did too. Ask Bernie. She filmed it.”

Wade groans and scrubs a hand down his face. “She did film it, didn’t she?”

Their banter is stupid and light and ridiculous—but for the first time in days, the weight pressing down on my chest lifts just a little.

I let myself sit back, beer in hand, and breathe.

Just for a minute.

By the time I leave The Trading Post, the sky’s gone that rich, navy blue that only shows up after midnight—when the streets start to settle and the city exhales.

Alex stayed to talk business with the kitchen manager. Wade promised to text me tomorrow about climbing but made me swear to make Alex wear those ridiculous neon shoes we have in stock if we get him on a wall.

I told him no promises.

Wade used to teach a few beginner classes back at the Chicago location when we were short-staffed, back before Squeaky Bum had a real training protocol.

He was surprisingly good at it; patient, upbeat, the kind of guy new climbers felt safe with.

It’s actually how I met Bernie—when he asked for some time to himself on one of the walls so he could teach her how to climb.

I knew the minute I met Bernie that she was gonna wreck his life in the best way.

Alex, on the other hand? Claims to hate climbing. Says it’s unnatural to willingly hang from walls. But the guy secretly loves it, he just talks so much trash while doing it, no one takes him seriously. And he’s terrible. Really, objectively terrible.

But he always shows up. And somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. I haven’t decided.

Now it’s just me and the walk to my truck, the buzz of laughter fading behind me, and the weight of Stella’s absence pressing back in.

The thing about being around Wade and Alex is they make it easier to forget. For a few hours, I let myself laugh, let the ache soften around the edges.

But now?

Now the quiet creeps back in.

I climb into my truck and sit there for a minute before turning the key. My hand rests on the wheel, but I don’t move. I just stare at the empty passenger seat and wonder how someone who said she didn’t want to stay could make everything else feel like standing still.

I miss her.

Not in the I want to text you at 2 a.m. kind of way.

But in the you shifted something in me, and I don’t know how to un-feel it kind of way.

And maybe that’s the part that scares me most.

I thought I could handle it. I thought I could take her as she was, walls and all, and wait her out.

But maybe I waited too long to say what I really felt. Maybe she needed something I didn’t know how to give.

Or maybe she was never going to stay.

Still… I’m not ready to let go.

Not yet.

The end-of-month check-in with Ray is usually a ten-minute numbers rundown followed by a twenty-minute rant about gym gear trends and his refusal to sell anything with a neon zipper.

Today, we’re only five minutes in when the door to my office swings open and Claire strolls in like she’s still got keys to the place.

I don’t even get a chance to wave her off.

She starts talking before I can mute Ray. “Hey, so I was thinking if we loop in that branding firm I mentioned, we could run a summer promo and…”

“Claire,” Ray says.

She freezes, eyes widening when she sees his face on the screen.

“Hi, Ray.” Her voice goes bright and fake. “Didn’t realize we were on a call.”

“Clearly.” Ray’s tone is casual, but his eyes have that dry, don't-push-me glint I know too well. “I heard your little pitch.”

She smooths her hand over her hair, regrouping. “I’m just trying to help. You know Luke and I have history building Squeaky Bumb. I care about its success.”

Ray leans forward slightly. “And I care about Luke. So let me be clear—because I think you’re hearing what you want, not what’s being said.”

Claire opens her mouth, but Ray keeps going.

“You need to back the fuck off, Claire. And I mean that in the kindest way. Luke has told you where he stands. Stop pretending you haven’t heard him.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t interrupt. This is long overdue.

Claire swallows, visibly stunned. “I’m not trying to cause trouble…”

“You’re not causing trouble,” Ray cuts in. “You’re just refusing to accept that the door’s closed. And while I respect your hustle, it’s starting to look a lot like denial.”

She stands there for a beat, blinking like she can’t quite believe someone finally said it out loud.

Ray exhales. “You’re smart. Ambitious. You’ll land somewhere else and crush it. But it won’t be here. And it won’t be with my nephew.”

Silence.

Claire nods once, slowly. “Okay.”

Ray turns to me. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I say, voice a little rough. “Thanks, Ray.”

He nods. “Call me tomorrow. We’ll finish the numbers. And maybe grab a beer over FaceTime.”

Before I can respond, he ends the call.

Claire crosses her arms and leans her hip against the chair in front of my desk. “He always did like you more.”

“I am his nephew,” I say, deadpan.

She smiles and playfully rolls her eyes. “Semantics.”

I stop her banter in its tracks. “He likes people who listen.”

She sighs. “I heard him. I heard you, too. I guess I just hoped…” Her eyes search my face. “There’s really nothing left? Between us?”

“No,” I say gently but firmly. “There’s not.”

She nods again, quieter this time. Accepting it, finally. I hope.

“Is it the photographer?”

“It’s not that simple,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Things are… complicated.”

Claire huffs a soft laugh. “Aren’t they always.”

She moves to the door, but pauses before stepping through. “Look, we made a lot of mistakes—you and I, went it came to us. Pushing too hard, holding on too long. Waiting until it was too late. But if there’s even a sliver of something there with her, don’t let it go just because it’s hard.”

I meet her eyes. There’s no heat left, no anger. Just… truth.

“I’ll think about it.”

She offers a faint smile. “Good.”

And then, finally, Claire walks out. No dramatics. No parting jab.

Just the soft click of the door behind her.

And for the first time since she came back, the air feels clear again.