Chapter 5: The Card on the Nightstand
The city sounds bled through her apartment window—a distant siren, the bass thump of a passing car, the occasional shout from the street below. But inside, the space was muffled by layers of worn fabric and memory. Lily-Anne lay on her bed, still in the floral sundress, one arm wrapped tightly around Buster. Her satchel lay dumped by the door, spilling crayons onto the floorboards.
On the nightstand, propped against a chipped porcelain lamp, was the business card.
Darian Vale. The name felt solid in her mouth when she whispered it. She stared at the neat type until the letters blurred.
Her mind was a scratched record, stuck on the same grooves. The warmth of his chest under her cheek. The weight of his hand on her head. The way he’d called her ‘little one’ like it was a fact, not a question. Then, the counter-melody, harsh and familiar: He was just doing his job. Being nice. You cried. He probably feels sorry for you. He gives that card to everyone, it’s just a formality.
She rolled onto her back, the ceiling swimmy in the low light. Shadowy shapes of forgotten mobiles—cardboard stars, a felt moon—hung motionless above. The room was a museum of almost-starts. A half-knitted scarf pooled on a chair. A watercolor palette, dried and cracked. Books with bright covers stacked in leaning towers, bookmarks stranded halfway through.
She’d been so possible walking home. That feeling had evaporated somewhere between her front door and this bed, replaced by a sticky, familiar dread.
Her phone was a cold brick in her hand. She’d unlocked it a dozen times, pulled up a new message, typed the number from the card. And stopped.
What was the protocol? What did you say to a man who’d seen you dissolve into a puddle of tears and snot on a nursery rug? ‘Hey, it’s the disaster from the littles room, remember me?’
Her thumbs hovered.
'Thank you for tonight.'
Delete. Too formal. Like a thank-you note after a bad interview.
'Hi, it’s Lily-Anne from The Pearl.'
Delete. He knew that. Was she expecting him to have forgotten?
'I can’t stop thinking about the bridge.'
A hot wave of shame. Delete, delete, delete. Too much. Too revealing.
She groaned, tossing the phone onto the comforter like it had burned her. It landed face-up, a blank, dark rectangle judging her. Buster’s one good eye seemed to watch her, too.
“What do I do?” she whispered to him, squeezing his soft body.
He offered no advice, only silent, threadbare loyalty.
This was the part she always failed. The after. The maintenance. The part where you had to be a person, not just a moment of vulnerability. This was where people realized she was more work than she was worth. Where the neediness that may have seemed sweet at first curdled into an obligation.
Her chest felt tight. The lavender scent from the diffuser was suddenly cloying, suffocating.
She snatched the phone back. The glow lit her face in the dark room. No thinking. Just doing. Her fingers moved, clumsy and fast, before the fear could solidify again.
'I had a nice time. Thank you. - Lily-Anne'
She hit send.
The sound, a soft whoosh, was terrifyingly final.
For a second, there was nothing. Just the blank screen of her messaging app. Then, the notification.
Delivered.
The paralysis lifted, replaced by a frantic, buzzing energy. She shot up from the bed, pacing the short length of her room. What did ‘nice time’ even mean? It was vapid. Generic. He’d think she was an idiot. She should have said something more substantial. Something that showed she’d listened, that she’d understood his metaphor. She grabbed the phone again, heart hammering against her ribs.
Three typing dots.
They appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
She stopped breathing. The world narrowed to those three pulsing dots. The traffic noise faded. The only sounds were the frantic thud of her pulse in her ears and the soft rustle of her dress as she swayed on the spot.
The dots vanished.
Nothing.
A cold pit opened in her stomach. He’d started to reply and changed his mind. He was crafting a gentle let-down. You’re very sweet, but… Or worse, he was discussing it with someone. Remember the crier I told you about? She just texted me. How do I let her down gently?
She was going to be sick. She dropped onto the edge of the bed, the phone slipping from her sweaty grip onto the quilt. She buried her face in her hands, the heel of her palms pressing hard against her eyes until fireworks exploded in the darkness. Stupid. So stupid.
The phone buzzed.
A single, sharp vibration against the fabric.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Five seconds. Ten.
With trembling fingers, she reached for it, turning it over like it might be a live insect.
A new message. From the number.
She tapped it.
'I’m glad you did. You were very brave. Get some sleep, little one.'
No questions. No pressure. No elaborate response. Just acknowledgment, and an instruction.
The tight knot in her chest loosened all at once, leaving her breathless. She read it three times, tracing the words with her eyes. Very brave. He’d called her that before. He meant it.
A shaky breath escaped her, almost a laugh. She clutched the phone to her chest, then looked at Buster, who had fallen over during her pacing.
“He answered,” she whispered.
She didn’t write back. He’d told her to sleep. Following the instruction felt like part of it, like letting the first stone of his bridge take her weight.
She changed into an oversized soft t-shirt, finally shedding the sundress. She washed her face, the water cool on her flushed skin. Back in bed, she arranged Buster under her arm and placed the phone back on the nightstand, screen facing down.
The shadows on the ceiling seemed softer now. The lavender scent was just lavender again. The city’s noise was just the city, going on without her.
She didn’t know what came next. But for tonight, the bridge had held.