Page 130 of Across the Boards

“Thanks,” I say, summoning a smile that feels mechanical. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“We appreciate your talent.” Catherine checks her watch. “I should get back—board meeting at two. But Elliot? Consider this friendly advice from someone who relocated here five years ago: Seattle only becomes home when you let it. When you stop comparing it to what you left behind.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I didn’t leave Phoenix behind. Not really. I brought it with me—in memories, in regrets, in the phantom sensation of Brody’s fingers laced through mine. In the echo of his voice saying “I love you” when I wake gasping from dreams where I made a different choice.

Back in my office, I throw myself into work—the one area of my life that still makes sense. Words follow rules. Syntax creates order. Documentation problems have solutions, clear and unambiguous.

Unlike the mess I’ve made of my personal life.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sarah, who’s been checking in daily since the infamous fight between Brody and Jason. Her attempts at casual conversation thinly disguising what I suspect is a reconnaissance mission on Brody’s behalf.

Phoenix lost Game 6. Playoffs over for them. Miami advancing to conference finals. Thought you’d want to know.

I stare at the message, uncertain how to respond. Should I express sympathy for the team’s elimination? Ask about Brody specifically? Pretend I haven’t been following every game via the ESPN app I downloaded specifically for this purpose?

Thanks for the update.

Non-committal. Safe. Revealing nothing of the conflicted emotions churning beneath the surface.

Tommy says the guys are taking it pretty hard. End-of-season meetings scheduled for tomorrow. Then everyone scatters for the summer.

There’s subtext here that I’m missing, some significance to the timeline she’s outlining. But before I can decipher it, another text arrives.

You still haven’t admitted you made a mistake, have you?

Direct as always. No hedging, no gentle leading questions. Pure Sarah.

I’m trying to make the best of my decision.

That’s not the same thing as believing it was the right one.

I set the phone down without responding, turning back to my computer where simple problems with clear solutions await. Unlike the tangled mess of emotions Sarah’s trying to excavate—regret, longing, the persistent sense that I’ve made a terrible mistake that grows more irreversible with each passing day.

By evening, rain has intensified from gentle mist to proper downpour, drumming against my apartment windows with increased urgency. I stand watching droplets trace patterns down the glass, Seattle’s skyline a blur of refracted light through the watery veil.

Beautiful, in its way. But foreign. Unwelcoming. Empty.

My phone buzzes with another text and my heart leaps into my throat, pulse accelerating as I see the preview on the screen before opening it.

Elliot, there are things that need to be said that can’t be texted properly. So I’ll keep this brief. I’m in Seattle. Just landed. Flight delayed due to weather (does it always rain here?). Would like to see you. Talk in person. I’ll be at Pike Place Market tomorrow at noon, by the brass pig. If you come, I promise to respect whatever boundaries you set. If you don’t, I’ll understand, and I’ll never bother you again. The choice is yours. Always has been.

I read the message three times, emotions cycling rapidly through shock, hope, fear, anger, longing—settling finally on a kind of paralyzed indecision that has me sinking onto my couch, phone clutched in suddenly clammy hands.

Brody is here. In Seattle. Wants to see me.

Why now? Why in person? What could he possibly say that would change anything about our situation?

And yet, my mind immediately begins constructing scenarios, imagining the encounter. What will I wear? What will I say? Will I maintain composure or dissolve into the emotional mess I’ve been carefully suppressing for six weeks?

I reread his message, analyzing each word.The choice is yours. Always has been.There’s an accusation embedded there, subtle but unmistakable. A challenge, perhaps. Or a reminder that I was the one who walked away, who chose Seattle over the possibility of us.

My finger hovers over the screen, hesitating to respond. Yes, I’ll be there? No, this is a terrible idea? Please come to my apartment instead so we can have this conversation in private rather than surrounded by tourists and fish-throwers?

In the end, I set the phone down without responding, too overwhelmed by conflicting impulses to formulate a coherent reply. There will be no sleep for me tonight, my mind racing with questions and rehearsed conversations that branch into countless variations depending on what he might say, what I might answer, how either of us might react to the other’s presence after six weeks of silence.

* * *

Morning arrives with clearing skies—anunusual respite from Seattle’s perpetual dampness. Perhaps a sign, if I believed in such things. Which I don’t. Because signs and fate and cosmic intervention are the realm of romantic irrationality, not pragmatic technical editors who make decisions based on logic and risk assessment.

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