Chapter 30: Maybe Next Time

ETHAN— A Week Later...

Ethan grunted, pulling a dusty old couch an inch closer to the entrance of his storage room. His two-bedroom apartment, modest yet comfortable, was his haven, but moments like these reminded him of the cluttered realities of city living. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, squinting at the faint sunlight streaming through the blinds. He muttered under his breath, "Why did I even keep this thing?"

The storage room was dim, lit only by a single bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. Dust swirled in the air as Ethan shifted boxes and old furniture around, trying to make space. He crouched by a box sealed with yellowing tape, its edges fraying from years of neglect. “What’s in here?” he wondered aloud.

Grabbing a box cutter, he sliced through the tape, peeling it back carefully as though it held some ancient treasure. Inside, he found a collection of his old college belongings. A nostalgic smile tugged at his lips when his fingers brushed against a small, intricately designed hourglass. The green glow of its sand still shone faintly. Ethan turned it over in his hands, marveling at how the sand seemed to dance inside.

“I don’t believe I still have this,” he muttered, his voice tinged with amazement. Memories from his college days surged back— the late-night debates, shared laughter with friends, and the sense of limitless potential. He set the hourglass aside carefully, digging deeper into the box.

His hand froze as he pulled out a small, framed photograph. The image was slightly faded, but the moment it captured remained vivid. It was him and Peter, his college roommate, standing in a hospital room. Peter was in a hospital gown, his frail frame betraying the severity of his condition, but his smile was wide and genuine. Ethan swallowed hard. Peter had been diagnosed with cancer during their sophomore year, and despite all their hopes, he hadn’t made it to graduation.

Ethan stared at the photo, his thumb brushing over the glass. “I should’ve visited more,” he murmured, guilt settling in his chest. He placed the photo gently back in the box, sealing it up again with slow, deliberate movements. Taking a step back, he surveyed the storage room. Boxes and suitcases were stacked unevenly, leaving just enough room for the old couch. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then muttered to himself, “If I stack those over there, I can probably squeeze this in.”

He got to work, dragging the old couch to one side and hoisting a stack of boxes onto a nearby shelf. The weight made his muscles strain, and he paused occasionally to catch his breath, dusting off his hands on his sweatpants. Finally, he managed to wedge the couch into the cleared space, stepping back to admire his work with a sigh of relief.

The faint buzz of his phone broke the silence, and Ethan pulled it from his pocket. The name "Edgar" flashed on the screen. He frowned, glancing at the time: 4:57 a.m. “What the hell could he want this early?” he muttered, clearing his throat before answering.

“Hello, sir,” Ethan greeted, his tone professional but laced with curiosity.

“Ethan, good morning,” Edgar’s deep voice resonated through the line. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

Ethan stifled a sigh. “No, sir. Not at all.”

“Good. I wanted to inform you that the Wilson trial case is being reassigned. I’m handing it over to you.” Edgar’s words were brisk, leaving no room for negotiation. “Christy has done a fine job so far, but I believe your expertise is better suited for the next phase. The trial resumes in two weeks, so familiarize yourself with the details immediately.”

Ethan’s grip on the phone tightened. “Understood, sir,” he said, though his mind was already racing with the implications. He had planned to use the coming weeks to catch his breath, but now those plans were slipping away.

“Thank you, Ethan. The firm appreciates your dedication,” Edgar said, his tone softening slightly. “We’re counting on you.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving Ethan staring at the screen. “Here we go again,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He tossed the phone onto a nearby table, exhaling sharply. The Wilson's case was high-profile and complicated— a challenge he wasn’t sure he was ready for on such short notice.

As he leaned against the doorway, his eyes caught sight of a name in his call log: It was CYNTHIA. A faint smile crept onto his lips. Their date at the lounge had been brief, but it had left a lasting impression. She was unlike anyone he’d met before— enigmatic, guarded, yet undeniably captivating.

Before he could overthink it, Ethan tapped on her name and hit “Call.” The phone rang once, twice, then a third time. He waited, hope flickering in his chest, but it eventually went to voicemail.

“Maybe next time,” he muttered, slipping the phone back into his pocket.