Page 36 of Twisted Paths

The air holds no trace of her perfume, no sign that she was ever here at all.

Except for the note.

It’s propped against the kettle, the edges slightly curled, like she wrote it in a hurry but still wanted to leave it somewhere I’d see.

My name is scrawled across the front in loose, looping handwriting. I pick it up, unfolding it, my eyes scanning the words.

Morning, sleepyhead,

I had to run. I’m meeting my sister at the farmers' market. Didn’t want to wake you (partly because you looked peaceful, partly because I suspected you’d be grumpy about it).

Last night was… well, you were there, you know how good it was.

Not sure what this all was, but if you want to talk about it, maybe you fancy coming to mine for dinner tonight?

Or, if this was just a one-night thing, no hard feelings. I promise I won’t make it awkward. (I mean, I might, but not on purpose.)

Either way, thanks for a great night.

Nancy

Her phone number is scribbled at the bottom.

My thumb drags absently over the corner of the paper, the faintest smile tugging at the edge of my lips despite the flicker of something uncertain twisting in my chest.

She’s giving me a choice.

I stare at the note a little longer, my fingers smoothing the fold as if that will somehow help me process what I’m feeling.

Butterflies.

It’s an absurd thing to admit, even to myself. I don’t get butterflies. I don’t do butterflies. And yet, there’s something unsettlingly real about the way my stomach shifts as I reread her words.

It’s not nerves. It’s not regret. It’s just… different.

I set the note down carefully on the counter, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck.

She’s giving me a choice and I don’t immediately know what to do with it.

I could go. Have dinner. See where this thing between us leads.

Or I could leave it. Let it be what it was. A one-night thing with no expectations.

That should be the easy answer.

It always has been before.

I exhale, shaking my head. I leave it for now. Overthinking things has never done me any good.

Instead, I fill the kettle, setting it to boil, then grab a couple of slices of bread and shove them in the toaster. The routine is familiar, easy, something that doesn’t require thought.

The tea is strong, the toast buttered and unremarkable, but it’s enough. I take my mug and plate upstairs, setting them on my desk as I sink into my office chair.

The screen of my laptop flickers to life.

I open the document, the bare bones of an outline staring back at me. The vicar, the small village, the murder she’s about to get tangled in.

The cursor blinks.

---