Chapter 11: The Phone Call
The morning light through her thin curtains was soft, honeyed. Lily-Anne woke tangled in her sheets, Buster wedged under her chin. For a disorienting second, the previous night felt like a dream spun from sugar and low voices. Then she remembered the weight of his hand on her back, the taste of chocolate, the solid certainty in his eyes.
You earned it.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Her heart did a clumsy flip. She fumbled for it, the screen too bright. A text from an unknown number, but she knew.
Darian: 7:42 AM. Did you sleep?
She stared at the three words. They were simple. Caring. A checkpoint. She typed, deleted, typed again.
Lily-Anne: 7:51 AM. A little. It was a lot.
The three dots appeared almost immediately. She held her breath.
Darian: 7:52 AM. It was. How do you feel now?
How did she feel? Like a glass filled too fast, spilling over. Scared he’d see the mess. She typed a safe answer.
Lily-Anne: 7:54 AM. Okay. A bit tired.
His reply was quicker.
Darian: 7:54 AM. Be specific, Bunny Girl. Words have power. “Okay” tells me nothing.
The command, even through text, made her sit up. She pushed hair out of her face. The apartment was silent except for the old fridge groaning in the kitchenette. She let herself feel it, the swirl inside her chest.
Lily-Anne: 8:03 AM. Nervous. Like I might have made it all up. Embarrassed that I cried. Worried you’re already bored. Scared I did it wrong.
She sent it before she could censor herself, then threw the phone on the bed as if it were hot. She got up, made tea, moving through the familiar clutter of her sanctuary—the half-knitted scarf on the armchair, the watercolor paints dried on a palette, the shelf of pretty rocks and seashells she never knew what to do with. The phone didn’t buzz.
An hour passed. The silence grew teeth.
He was bored. He’d realized she was exactly what her exes said: too much work. A pathetic little girl in a woman’s body, crying over cake and fairy tales, who just needed to grow up. The shame was a cold, familiar sludge in her veins. She wiped a tear away angrily, blaming the steam from her tea.
The phone rang.
The sound was shockingly loud, a vintage trill. His name flashed on the screen. She stared, her pulse hammering in her throat. It rang three times. Four. On the fifth, she snatched it up.
“Hi?” Her voice was a wisp.
“Lily-Anne.” His voice was exactly the same. Grounded. Real. “Put me on speaker. Go sit on your couch.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re probably pacing, and I want you still. Do it, please.”
The firmness left no room for argument. She fumbled with the phone, tapped the speaker icon, and carried it to her worn sofa, tucking her feet underneath her.
“I’m here.”
“Good.” A pause, the faint sound of his breath. “Now, listen to me. You didn’t make anything up. The dessert bar has a receipt with my signature on it. The hostess remembers the beautiful girl with the rabbit. It happened.”
She clutched a cushion. “The crying…”
“Was a release. It was trust. It was beautiful. Do not be embarrassed for feeling something profoundly.”
“But the texts… I sounded so needy. It’s been an hour and I was already spiraling.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “I’m sorry. I know I’m too much. I’m trying not to be. I promise, I'm trying to do it right.”
There was a long silence on his end. She could almost see him, maybe in his own kitchen, his broad hand wrapped around a mug of black coffee, his eyes narrowed in thought.
“First,” he said, his tone shifting into something harder, a blade cutting through fog. “You will stop apologizing for your emotional responses. You feel deeply. That is a feature, not a bug. Second, you are not ‘too much.’ You are exactly enough. Your anxiety, your fear, your joy—it’s all part of the whole. I see the whole. And I am not bored.”
A sob caught in her chest, but it was different this time. Lighter. It was the sound of a heavy lock clicking open.
“You… you see it?”
“I do. And I’m still here.”
She believed him. The solidity in his voice was an anchor. She nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed, the warmth returning. “Now, tell me about your day. What’s the plan?”
She looked around her sunlit, cluttered apartment. “Work at eleven. Just stocking and maybe some pricing. It’s quiet on Tuesdays.”
“Good. A normal day. You’ll go, you’ll be polite, you’ll come home. And you’ll text me when you’re back. A check-in. Not because you’re needy, but because I care to know you’re safe. Understood?”
“Understood.” The instruction was a relief. A structure.
“There’s something else,” he said. “The museum on Grant Street has a new exhibit. Botanical illustrations. Detailed drawings of heirloom flowers. I thought, maybe this weekend, if you felt like it, we could go. No velvet ropes, no nursery. Just you and me and some old, beautiful pictures. As us. Both of us.”
The invitation hung in the lavender-scented air. It wasn’t a date in a little space. It was a date in the big, wide world. He was asking for Lily-Anne, the bookseller who liked walks and quiet.
“That… that would be fun,” she said, the words feeling new and delicate on her tongue.
“Good.” She heard the smile in his voice. “We’ll confirm details later. Go get ready for work, Bunny Girl. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
The call ended. The silence in her apartment was different now. Not empty, but full. She sat for a long while, listening to the distant city sounds, feeling the fragile, glowing thing in her chest. It wasn’t just hope. It was the first, tentative beat of something like trust.
She got up, washed her cup, and dressed for work—a soft, knee-length skirt and a blouse with tiny embroidered violets. Before she left, she stopped at her shelf of trinkets. She picked up a smooth, green sea glass she’d found years ago and kept because it was pretty but useless. Today, it felt like a talisman. She put it in her pocket.
Walking to the bookstore, the sun felt warmer on her skin. The noise of the traffic seemed manageable, just sound, not an assault. Her fingers brushed the sea glass in her pocket. She thought of gold thread on a velvet rabbit, and for the first time in a long time, the memory didn’t taste of loss. It tasted of possibility.