Chapter 7: A Text and a Leap
The glow of her phone screen seemed to burn a hole in the dim quiet of her apartment. Lily-Anne sat perfectly still on the edge of her bed, Button a soft weight in her lap, and watched the little ‘Delivered’ notification beneath her text like it was a live wire.
‘Thank you. I had a really good time. Maybe I can come back this week?’
It was out there. Floating in the digital space between his world and hers. She had typed it, her thumbs clumsy with haste, and hit send before the part of her brain that screamed about neediness and forwardness could fully engage. Now that part was wide awake and yelling.
She groaned, flopping backward onto the quilt and pulling Button over her face. The old velvet smelled like home and faintly of her lavender shampoo. “I’m an idiot,” she mumbled into his fur. “He was being nice. Just nice. And now I’ve… I’ve invited myself. That’s what that is. An invitation. Oh god.”
The silence from her phone was absolute. She peeked out from under the stuffed rabbit. Nothing. The amber light from her bedside lamp cast the peeling wallpaper into sharp relief, making patterns that looked like staring faces. The familiar hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette suddenly felt like the only sound in the universe.
She waited. Five minutes. She counted the cracks in the ceiling she knew by heart.
Ten minutes. She got up, restless, and padded to the small kitchen to put the kettle on. The ritual of tea—spooning loose leaves, waiting for the water to boil—usually soothed her. Tonight, it was just something to do with her hands.
Fifteen minutes. The tea was steeping, and her phone was a cold, silent slab on the nightstand. He wasn’t going to answer. He was busy. He was building something. He was with someone else—a little who wasn’t a nervous wreck, who knew how to be cute and bubbly and ask for things without feeling like they were stealing. He’d forgotten her. The ‘good girl’ was just a politeness, a standard send-off. Of course it was.
The sharp buzz of her phone against the wood made her jump, sloshing hot tea over her wrist.
She dove for it, her heart a frantic bird in her throat. A notification. Not a text. An email. A bookstore newsletter.
She let out a shaky breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Get a grip,” she whispered to the room. She took her tea and sat in the worn velvet armchair, curling her feet beneath her. She picked up a half-read romance novel, but the words swam on the page. The hero’s smoldering gaze just made her think of Marcus’s calm, watchful eyes.
Another buzz. This one, a distinct double-tap. A text.
She nearly dropped the book. Setting the tea down with a clatter, she reached for the phone, her fingers trembling.
Marcus: Hey you.
Two words. Her breath caught.
Marcus: I’m glad you had a good time. Was wondering if you’d message.
He’d been wondering. About her.
Marcus: The club’s open Friday. You’re welcome anytime.
She stared at the screen, her mind blanking. She needed to say something. Something normal. Friendly. Not desperate. She typed, deleted, typed again.
Lily-Anne: Friday sounds good.
Too flat. She added.
Lily-Anne: If you’re going to be there, I mean. No pressure!
She sent it, wincing. “No pressure?” she muttered to Button. “Why did you say that?”
His reply came faster this time.
Marcus: I’ll be there.
A pause. Three dots appeared, pulsed, disappeared, then pulsed again. He was typing something longer. The suspense was a physical ache.
Marcus: But you know, the workshop’s closer to your side of town. I’m there tomorrow, finishing a rocking horse. The sanding’s done. Just staining it. Could use a second opinion on the color. It’s for a niece. If you wanted to see where the things get made.
The message hung in the air. This wasn’t the club. This wasn’t the structured, rules-defined space of the littles room. This was his private world. The place she’d imagined that morning, with the smell of sawdust and the sound of tools.
Her first, instinctive fear was a cold flood. Too fast. Too intimate. A trap? The old warnings hissed in her head.
But beneath it, a stronger, quieter current pulled. He was offering her a glimpse. Not of a Daddy, but of Marcus. The man who built things that lasted. He was giving her a choice, again. A safer one, in the bright light of day.
She thought of his hand on her shoulder. The solid, quiet patience of him. He hadn’t pushed. He wasn’t pushing now. He was just… leaving a door open.
She looked at Button on the pillow, his button eyes reflecting the lamplight. She’d brought his sock for courage once. Maybe she didn’t need it this time.
Her thumbs moved before the fear could reclaim its territory.
Lily-Anne: I’d like that. What time?
The answer was almost immediate.
Marcus: Come whenever. I’ll be here all afternoon. Sending the address.
A pin dropped on a map appeared. It was a ten-minute bus ride away, in an old warehouse district that was being slowly converted into artists’ studios.
Marcus: And Lily-Anne?
She held her breath.
Marcus: No pressure. Just you, me, and a half-painted horse. Okay?
The tension in her shoulders, the knot that had been sitting in her stomach since she hit send on that first text, loosened all at once. A small, real smile touched her lips. He’d used her words, turned them into a gentle joke. An acknowledgment of her nerves, and a promise to respect them.
Lily-Anne: Okay.
She put the phone down, her palm no longer sweating. She picked up her cooling tea and took a long, steady sip. The quiet of the apartment wasn’t heavy anymore. It was just quiet. The fridge hummed. The shadows in the corners were just shadows.
Friday was the club. A known quantity.
But tomorrow was the workshop. Something entirely new. She finished her tea, the warm ceramic solid in her hands, and looked out the window at the dark city. For the first time in a long time, the unknown didn’t feel like a threat. It felt, strangely, like a possibility.