Page 80 of Audiophile

Chapter thirty-one

Petra

MARCH

Days pass, as boringas before. While Reed was here, Swift River blossomed full of life and color. In his absence, there’s only my nosy family and long days at the grocery store. I fall into my old routine, minus the DKP audios. I cancel my subscription, unwilling to replace the real, warm, funny Reed with a fantasy in my head.

It used to be that my imagination would fly straight to Galin whenever I had spare time. While I still love it there, more of my free moments are stuck on Reed. What did he have for breakfast? What is he recording today? What geographic wonder is he exploring, and is there anyone sitting next to him? Does anyone tell him how beautiful he looks when draped in sunshine? I miss his arms around me, his smug smile, his midnight confessions.

When the ache hits, I pull up the photo he sent of us in front of the waterfall. There aren’t shadows in either of our faces there. I want to tell him about my day, or ask him about his. I want to make up imaginary lands with him and watch his dimple appear when he laughs. But he doesn’t call.

Livi calls repeatedly, but I send each one to voicemail. I’m not ready to hear how I should’vehandled things.

Papa sits with me late at night, afterBella Vitacloses. We don’t speak about Reed or Natalia, but instead Papa slips quietly into Italian and shares his childhood memories while living in Parma.

He’s a good storyteller, and I soak up the moments we have together, but my chest aches, even in his company. No amount of antacids, family remedies, or late night stories makes it fade.

Swift River, as a whole, is taking the gossip seriously. I’ve always beensweet Petra, kind Petra, heartbroken Petra, poor-thing Petra. Now I’mslutty Petra. They assumed a lot about me and Nate—that I wasn’t enough for Nate to stay. I wasn’t, but Reed taught me that Nate also wasn’t enough for me.

So I let people think some guy blazed through town and I ended up in his bed quicker than dandruff. I stay silent, saving all the best parts of Reed for myself. The occasional woman leans over the conveyor belt and says, “Good for you, honey,” and I smile back unabashedly. No more shame.

Family dinner comes and goes, and I force myself not to retreat to the corner. Tommy pours me a glass of wine, and we huddle together on the sofa and take turns making Hailey laugh. “Did you ever call Annamaria?” I ask quietly, so no one else can hear.

Tommy shifts under the weight of my stare. “Yes. I’m dating Jasmin. Only Jasmin.”

“I’m proud of you,” I say, and Tommy meets my smile with his own.

Livi must tell the group chat that Reed flew home, because Silla texts me the next morning.

Hey, Troni. Haven’t heard from you. How are you holding up?

I’m fine

Yeah, you sound super fine. Talk to me.

I switch my phone to silent and tread back into Galin, where the pretty pastels and bright, sunny afternoons chase away my gloom. My writing method shifts in a monumental way. Instead of living vicariously through Natalia, she and I work together. I appreciate her journey instead, watching her learn and grow.

I dive into my earliest installations, editing them with a practiced eye compared to when I’d written them. Something foreign moves through me, and I can’t place it. Optimism, determination, ambition? None of those words quite fit.

I’m pondering it as I get ready for work, but my phone chimes with a text from Reed, and all my thoughts derail.

Hey Pet. Call me after your shift?

It’s been six days, but his words still linger in my ear. It’s not fair,not fair, because text should be a layer of defense against him and his voice that makes me melt, but it’s not. I wasn’t delusional enough to assume he’d call me when he landed, but the week apart confirmed my suspicions. Naked people don’t stay friends, and I’m not about to be his booty call.

I don’t text back.

Instead, I send my first four installments of Natalia’s series to a local print shop. It’s my first time printing any of my work, and anxiety builds in my stomach. What if I see it and hate it? But with Reed gone, I need something tangible. A dream that’s within reach. I need to hold hope in my hands.

Zia Carla corners me at the register—I swear she shops for gossip, not groceries. “Will you come to the rosary tomorrow, Petra? Maybe reconnecting with God will bring you clarity. Help you find your path.”

I bristle, but I’m saved from answering when an unfamiliar blonde rushes up to the register. “Sorry, but someone’s alarm is going off in the parking lot!”

Perfect timing. Maybe God does remember me.

I smile at Carla before I turn to the girl. She’s striking, with light blue eyes and a lithe figure I haven’t had since I was eight. “What kind of car?”

“A white one?” she guesses with a smile, and I laugh.

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