Page 101 of The Prime-Time Experiment

The book rested open in her hands, more an anchor than a source of entertainment. She had been staring out the window for several minutes without turning a page, watching pedestrians move past in uneven clusters while the afternoon light stretched across the footpath outside.

Her phone vibrated against the table. Riley glanced at the screen.

Unknown number.

Ordinarily, she would have let it ring out and assessed whether a voicemail followed. Today, for reasons she couldn’t fully explain, she answered.

“Hello.”

“Riley? It’s Leanne.” Her attention sharpened. The response surprised her less than it might have a fortnight ago. There had been a period where anything connected to Declan had felt dangerous, as though proximity alone might unravel decisions she had worked very hard to maintain. It didn’t feel as necessary as it did before.

“Hello, Leanne.”

“I hope it’s okay that I’m calling.”

“It is.”

Leanne was quiet for a moment, seemingly choosing her words with care. “I wasn’t entirely sure whether you’d want to hear from us.”

Riley looked down at the book resting in her lap. The statement should have been easy to answer, it wasn’t, because wanting had never really been the problem. Missing people and staying away from them had turned out to be entirely compatible states.

“I have thought about all of you frequently,” she said.

The honesty seemed to surprise them both. Leanne’s voice softened. “We’ve thought about you too, sweetheart.”

Something shifted quietly inside Riley’s chest. She had spent weeks convincing herself that distance was the responsible choice, that removing herself was an act of protection rather than avoidance. The certainty of that conclusion had become increasingly difficult to maintain every time she found herself wondering how Ebony was doing, or whether Charlie had finally fixed the kitchen cupboard he kept complaining about, or whether Leanne was still sending Declan photographs of every dog she encountered.

She missed them. The simplicity of that felt almost embarrassing. “I actually called because of Ebony.”

Riley sat up slightly. “What about her?”

“She’s okay,” Leanne said quickly. “Nothing’s happened.”

Relief arrived first, concern followed. “Then why are you calling?”

Leanne exhaled softly. “Because I know her.” There was affection in the statement, familiarity, the kind that came from years of observation. “She’s been struggling a bit recently. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it, but she’s quieter than usual. She doesn’t really want to go anywhere, and every conversation seems to circle back to things she doesn’t quite know how to explain.”

Riley lowered her gaze. That sounded familiar, painfully familiar.

“When I asked her what was wrong,” Leanne continued, “she said she couldn’t categorise it.”

A faint ache settled somewhere beneath Riley’s ribs. She could picture Ebony saying exactly that. More importantly, she could picture the effort it would have taken for her to admit it aloud.

“Would you consider coming to see her?”

Riley’s thoughts began arranging themselves around the request, assessing logistics before emotion could fully intervene.

Leanne seemed to recognise it. “It would be at my place,” she said gently. “Not Declan’s.”

Riley looked out the window. The answer should have required more analysis than it did. A few days ago she would have found reasons to decline, reasons that would have sounded logical.

Now, sitting here with a book she hadn’t read for twenty minutes and a growing awareness that isolation had solved remarkably little, the answer felt unexpectedly straightforward.

She cared about Ebony, Ebony was hurting, and Riley was allowed to show up for people who mattered to her.

The realisation arrived with a quiet certainty she hadn’t possessed a fortnight ago. “Of course,” she said.

The smile in Leanne’s voice was immediate. “I’ll send you the address.”