The Plan

January. The new year stretched ahead and the conversation about meeting didn't go away.

She had said it and she hadn't taken it back. That was the first thing he checked. The morning after New Year's Eve, he had woken up to a message from her that said I still mean it. In case you were wondering. He read it four times. He had been wondering.

But saying it and planning it were different things. She had said it in the soft dark of a phone call with a new year hanging in the air. Planning it meant making it real. Planning it meant picking a date and buying a ticket and being in the same room and that was something else entirely.

She didn't bring it up again for two weeks. He didn't push. He had learned by now that her silences weren't rejections. They were processing. She needed to sit with things before she could hold them.

She brought it up on a Tuesday night call. Late for him. Her evening. She was in bed and he could hear the duvet shifting when she moved.

She said: So. The meeting thing.

He said: Yeah.

She said: How would that even work?

He said: However you want it to work.

She said: Don't do that. Don't just defer to me. I need you to be a person in this. I need you to have opinions.

He said: Okay. I think I should come to you. I think coming to your space makes more sense than you coming to mine. You have Lily. You have your life there. You have your best friend and your system. I can travel. I can leave. You shouldn't have to.

She was quiet for a moment.

She said: That's actually very practical.

He said: I have my moments.

She said: What about your son?

He said: I'd plan it for a week I don't have him. His mum is fine with keeping to the schedule. It's not a problem.

She said: And you'd stay where?

He said: Hotel. Airbnb. Whatever. Somewhere near you but not. I don't want to crowd you. I want you to be able to go home if you need to. I want there to be an exit.

She said: You're already thinking about exits?

He said: I'm thinking about what makes you feel safe. That's different.

She said: Everything you do is about making me feel safe. You know that right?

He said: That's the idea.

She went quiet again. He waited.

She said: Okay. So you'd come here. For how long?

He said: However long feels right. A few days. A week. Whatever you're comfortable with.

She said: A week is a long time to be around someone you've never met.

He said: It is. But we've been talking for a year. It's not like we're strangers.

She said: We kind of are though. That's the thing. I know everything about you and nothing about you at the same time. I know how you think. I know what you sound like. I know what your kitchen looks like. I don't know how you move. I don't know what you look like when you're angry or tired or bored. I don't know if you're a morning person or if you hog the blankets or if you leave cups everywhere.

He said: I leave cups everywhere.

She said: See. That's what I mean. I didn't know that.

He said: Now you do. And for the record, I'm not a morning person and I do hog blankets. So now you know that too.

She laughed. That laugh. It still went through him every time.

She said: Okay. Let's do it. Let's actually do it. Let me think about when and I'll tell you and then we'll figure it out.

He said: Okay.

She said: Okay.

They were both quiet for a while. The call was still connected. Neither of them hung up.

She said: Are you scared?

He said: Terrified.

She said: Me too. But I'm more scared of not doing it. I'm more scared of spending another year wondering.

He said: Then let's stop wondering.

She said: Yeah. Let's.

The weeks after that were strange.

The conversation about meeting had changed something. It made everything more real and more fragile at the same time. They were still talking every day. Still the same rhythm. Still the late calls and the morning messages and the breaks from the restaurant. But now there was something underneath. A current of anticipation that ran through everything. Every conversation had a new context. Every word carried the weight of soon.

He noticed it in himself first. He was more careful with what he said. Not less honest. Just more aware. Like the stakes had been raised and he wanted to make sure he didn't trip on the way to the table.

He noticed it in her too. She was softer. Not dramatically. Not like she had become a different person. But the edges had been sanded down slightly. She laughed more. She called more. She asked about him more. She sent him a photo of her morning coffee without being asked and another of a sunset from the restaurant parking lot and another of Lily's homework on the kitchen table.

Small windows. More of them. Like she was opening the curtains one at a time and letting him see in.