Page 85 of Audiophile

“Seriously? I’d love to have you close by! You could stay with me and Josie for a while, or Giselle, since you’re cool with her work. You could do that on the side, you know, if you wanted to earn extra,” she says with a wink.

I roll my eyes. “No one wants to see a cam girl over thirty.”

“Uh, people love that. And your whole girl-next-door thing? Super hot.”

“Pass. If I were to do anything, it would be like Reed. Audio appeals to me.”

Silla hums. “You’re an auralist. Not super uncommon, though most people don’t lean into it that far. I’m proud of you. You were always Papa’s good girl who went to church and pretended sex didn’t exist outside of your bed. Just talking to me about this? It’s a whole new Petra. You aren’t hidingeitherside of you, and I love that.”

Something settles in my chest at her words. Though I look the same, I feel different. More confident.

“Seattle’s less than four hours away,” she notes. “Portland is an hour. You can find big city life up here, too. It’s not Los Angeles or bust, you know? You could have it all. Usandthe life you want.”

“We need to see each other more often,” I sigh, wrapping my arms around her. The bubble of hope swelling in my chest is terrifying. More terrifying than growing old alone in my parents’ house—or worse, me and Tommy growing old here together.

When Silla leaves after breakfast, I wait for life to return to normal. I wait for the hope in my chest to fizzle out. For the spark of new life to fade to ash. For the varnish over my reality to yellow and brown, and wipe the color from my world.

But it doesn’t.

Reed texts again.

Do you still spend nights in the tub with me? Call me. Please.

But I can’t bring myself to do it. I edit Natalia’s story, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for Reed to move on.

I dream of a studio in Portland with barely enough space to write, and a window looking out over the bustling, wet street. A wall full of ideas and illustrations for Natalia’s series, and new friends that come over and eat delicious food.

At night, tucked in the corner of the dream, is a hope beyond hope.

The impossible version of my dream turns the studio into a three-bedroom house. Ours, my office, and Reed’s sound booth. We would drive each other crazy—both working from home—but the dream doesn’t care. We’d find happiness together when Reed works through story ideas with me, or when he pulls me into his sound booth for recordings that make me blush.

Our families would visit, filling up our kitchen with laughter. We’d come home for occasional Sunday dinners, or drive up toSeattle. We’d fly to see his sister and his family, and we’d eat puppy chow together on a park bench in Iowa.

That dream is cradled in the dark of my heart. It’s a mushroom, growing steadily despite the lack of optimism. Flourishing, despite the toxic stuff I’ve buried deep down.

Until I want nothing more than for it to be real.

Chapter thirty-three

Reed

Amanda’s house constantly lookslike a tornado has blown through it. She cleans every day, sometimes twice a day, but her kids are no match for her. Brooke and Janie tear down the hallway, chasing after each other, when I lunge forward and swoop them both up in my arms. They squeal and giggle, and we all collapse in a heap on the floor.

“You’re great with them,” Amanda notes as I bury Janie under another round of tickles. “How about you play mom today? I’ll go get a massage.”

“Wait!” Janie yells amongst her giggles, and I let her up. “Brooke took my tablet because hers ran out of battery!”

I pull a face at Amanda. “Nope. Sounds like ayouproblem.” I know my boundaries as a fun uncle. If I want to keep my fantastic relationship with Amanda, parenting is not my turf.

I squeeze past Amanda and into the guest room, letting her discipline her kids in peace. I slump to the floor with my laptop, checking my phone for the millionth time. There are hundreds of notifications, but none of them bear her name.

Nine days since I left Portland, and Petra hasn’t texted me back. Hasn’t called. The recording should’ve gotten an instant reaction, but it didn’t, and I’m trying not to push.

I held off on texting for as long as I could, but it’s a daily struggle to grant her space. I pushed her boundaries before, and it was exactly what she needed.

Maybe she needs time, which is what I should be taking. It’s hard to do when I don’t want to miss a moment with her. I’m readyfor months to have gone by with her by my side. Ready for people to get off my back about whether it will last.

If she’s as broken up about this as me right now, it’s gonna last.

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