Page 125 of Impulse Control
Because as long as she was nameless, she was only a moment I didn’t have to account for.
Only light.
Only something that didn’t demand anything from me.
So I let it pass.
Then stayed exactly where I was, pretending I hadn’t heard it at all.
Dominic texted me later that night.
I was on my couch, shoes kicked off, makeup half-removed, the city humming faintly through the windows.
Dominic:
Thanksgiving’s coming up. I can take the week off. I’d love to spend it with you.
I stared at the message longer than I should have.
Thanksgiving.
Right.
The holiday that didn’t exist here. The one my calendar had conveniently ignored. The one that implied planes, family, Ohio or Texas, and a version of myself that had to exist somewhere else.
I looked around my apartment.
At his sweater laying folded on the coffee table.
At my camera bag hanging on its hook by the door.
At the unopened folder Mischa had given me.
I had no idea which version of me he was inviting.
I typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Me:
I don’t know if I can.
The words sat there, small and honest and terrifying.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Dominic:
Okay
The single word response made my stomach drop. My mouth dried out and my pulse raced.
Dominic:
I’m not mad, Flash. I just want to plan something with you. Here or there. I’m not picky.
My chest tightened.
