Chapter 126 Distance
Chapter 126 Distance
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Charlie
Waiting is harder when nothing is happening.
If Cade called and yelled at me, at least I would know what he was thinking.
If he sent a long text explaining that he never wanted to see me again, I would hate every word, but I would have something solid to hold.
Instead, there’s silence.
Not complete silence.
Jordan still texts.
The family group chat still explodes whenever Lottie sends a picture of Patrick doing something domestic and claims it’s proof he has become boring.
My mom still calls every few days and asks whether I’m eating enough.
Work continues.
Traffic continues.
Snow falls, melts, freezes, and falls again.
Life keeps moving while the most important part of mine seems suspended.
I don’t contact Cade.
I want that recognized as the heroic act it is.
Every morning, I wake up and resist sending him a message.
Every afternoon, I resist checking with Jordan to see whether his father has mentioned me.
Every Friday I resist getting into my car and taking the familiar road toward Cade’s house.
My restraint deserves an award.
Possibly a statue.
Instead, I get headaches.
“Your phone isn’t going to ring because you’re glaring at it.”
I look up from my desk.
Maya stands on the other side of the lab bench, wearing safety glasses and an expression of deep amusement.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You’ve checked it six times.”
“I’m waiting on an email.”
“Your email is open on your computer.”
I look at the monitor.
She’s right.
“That doesn’t mean I’m not waiting on a second email.”
“From someone who only communicates by text?”
I narrow my eyes.
Maya smiles and returns to labeling samples.
I haven’t told anyone at work what happened.
It’s not that I am ashamed.
I simply don’t know how to explain it.
The man I love is my best friend’s father.
He’s fifteen years older than me.
We ignored the bond until it nearly broke both of us.
Then something happened outside of my control. Our control.
Then he regretted it.
Then he asked me to leave.
Simple.
Completely ordinary.
Nothing that would raise questions.
At lunch, Jordan sends me a picture of a bowl of soup.
\[Dad made too much again.\]
I stare at the message.
My first instinct is to ask how Cade is.
My thumbs hover over the screen.
Instead, I type: \[Looks good.\]
Jordan responds with a thumbs-up.
That should be the end of it.
A minute later, another message appears.
\[He barely ate any, though.\]
My chest tightens.
\[Why?\]
The reply takes longer this time.
\[Says he isn’t hungry. He’s been weird about food lately.\]
I sit straighter.
\[Is he sick?\]
\[Probably just tired. School is crazy.\]
I look toward the lab windows.
Outside, the sky is already darkening even though it isn’t yet five.
Cade works too hard.
He always has.
He takes papers home.
Answers emails at dinner.
Worries about students as though every child in his class personally belongs to him.
Stress makes sense.
That doesn’t stop the uneasiness settling beneath my ribs.
\[Make sure he eats.\]
Jordan sends a laughing emoji.
\[He’s my dad, not my toddler.\]
I nearly write that someone has to take care of him.
I delete it before sending.
That isn’t fair.
Cade has cared for himself for years.
He raised Jordan while still growing up himself.
He built a career.
A home.
A life.
He doesn’t need me treating him as fragile.
But wanting to care for him is different from thinking he can’t manage without me.
At least, I hope it is.
Friday arrives.
I leave work later than usual.
The parking lot is almost empty, and snow crunches beneath my boots as I cross toward my car.
For a few seconds, I stand beside the driver’s door.
Cade’s house is forty minutes away.
Less with no traffic.
I know the route so well that I could drive it half-asleep.
I imagine pulling into the driveway.
I imagine the porch light.
I imagine Cade opening the door.
I imagine him asking why I’m there.
Every version ends badly because he hasn’t asked me to come.
I unlock the car and drive home.
Saturday morning, Jordan calls.
Not texts.
Calls.
I answer before the second ring. “What happened?”
“Good morning to you too.”
My pulse is already climbing. “Why are you calling?”
“Because texting takes effort.”
“You voluntarily use your phone all day.”
“For important things.”
“And this isn’t important?”
“I wanted to ask if you’re coming over.”
The question catches me off guard.
I grip the phone tighter. “Why?”
“Because it’s Saturday.”
“I know what day it is.”
“You usually come over.”
Usually.
The word hurts.
“I’ve been busy.”
“For three weekends?”
“Work.”
Jordan is quiet.
He doesn’t believe me.
I can tell because he makes a low sound in his throat, the same one he’s used since college whenever he suspects someone is lying but hasn’t decided whether to challenge them.
“Dad keeps asking if I’ve heard from you.”
My heart stops. “What?”
“Not directly.”
I force myself to breathe. “What does that mean?”
“It means he does that thing where he says your name without actually asking a question.”
I know exactly what he means.
Cade will say something like, Charlie still working on that project?
Or, Has Charlie been busy lately?
Casual.
Careful.
Pretending the answer doesn’t matter.
“How is he?”
“Tired.”
Jordan’s answer comes too quickly.
“And?”
“And what?”
“You said he’s been weird about food.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
My hand tightens around the phone. “Jordan.”
“He’s fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He says he’s fine.”
Cade always says that.
“So?”
“So he fell asleep on the couch at seven last night.”
I stand.
I don’t know why.
There’s nowhere to go.
“What else?”
“Charlie.”
“What else?”
Jordan sighs. “He got sick Wednesday morning.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean, sick?”
“He threw up.”
“Did he go to a doctor?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he said it was a stomach bug.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I don’t know. He went to work.”
Of course he did.
I pace across my apartment.
Every instinct screams at me to grab my coat.
Go.
Take care of him.
Make sure he’s all right.
But Cade asked me to leave.
I told myself the next move had to be his.
Does illness change that?
If I show up because Jordan says Cade vomited once, will Cade feel cornered?
Will he think I’m using concern as an excuse to force my way back into his life?
“I’ll call him,” I say.
The words are out before I can stop them.
Jordan pauses. “Okay.”
I look at Cade’s contact.
The call with Jordan ends.
I don’t press the button.
Not immediately.
I stare at it for ten full minutes.
Then I send a message instead.
\[Jordan said you haven’t been feeling well. Are you okay?\]
The message delivers.
No answer.
Five minutes pass.
Ten.
Twenty.
I set the phone down.
Pick it up again.
At the forty-minute mark, the screen lights.
\[I’m fine. Just tired.\]
Four words.
Completely Cade.
Relief loosens something in my chest.
Concern remains.
\[Do you need anything?\]
The reply comes faster.
\[No. Thank you.\]
Polite.
Distant.
I close my eyes.
\[Okay. Take care of yourself.\]
He doesn’t answer.
For the rest of the weekend, I hear nothing.
The following Tuesday, Jordan texts that Cade fell asleep at the dinner table.
Thursday, he complains that his father has suddenly decided eggs are disgusting.
Friday, he sends: \[He made me take the trash out because the smell bothered him. I think he’s becoming dramatic with age.\]
I stare at that message longer than the others.
Tired.
Nauseated.
Food aversions.
Sensitivity to smells.
A thought forms.
I reject it so quickly that it almost feels physical.
No.
It’s possible.
I know it’s possible.
But Cade would know.
Wouldn’t he?
He’s been pregnant before.
He would recognize the signs.
Unless he’s refusing to.
Unless fear is blinding him the same way it’s blinded him to everything else.
My hands begin to shake.
I type: \[How long has he been feeling sick?\]
Jordan replies: \[A couple of weeks, maybe. Why?\]
I don’t answer.
I stand in the middle of my apartment while the world narrows around me.
It could be stress.
A virus.
Exhaustion.
Anything.
Anything else.
I want to call Cade.
I want to ask directly.
I want to hear his voice.
But asking him if he might be pregnant through a text message feels cruel.
Showing up feels worse.
So I wait.
Again.
I wait because Cade deserves the chance to understand what is happening in his own body before anyone else decides it for him.
I wait because I am terrified of the answer.
I wait because if it’s true, everything has already changed.
And somewhere across town, the man I love is standing in a classroom, gripping the edge of his desk while the smell of dry-erase markers suddenly becomes unbearable.