He's not my dad

part 12

By late morning, I’d made up my mind.
I needed to go to Chuck’s.
Not because I was confused or sentimental or suddenly incapable of understanding how a one-night stand worked—but because my dress was still there. And not just any dress. That dress. The one my mother had chosen, the one that felt like magic when I wore it. It didn’t deserve to be abandoned on the floor of a stranger’s bedroom.
Besides, I needed to return his clothes.
The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was clingy or dramatic or one of those women who invented meaning where there wasn’t any. This was practical. Sensible.
I rang the buzzer, nerves fluttering despite my best efforts to ignore them.
The door opened—not to Chuck—but to a woman in her forties with kind eyes and an apron tied neatly at her waist. My heart sank instantly.
Oh.
For one terrible second, I wondered if she was his girlfriend.
“Yes?” she asked, her accent thick, her English careful.
“I’m—um—looking for Chuck,” I said.
She smiled apologetically. “Master of house is out,” she explained. “I am housekeeper.”
Relief washed over me so fast I nearly laughed.
“Oh,” I said, smoothing my hair. “That’s fine. I was hoping to leave him a message.”
She nodded and stepped aside politely. I handed her the folded clothes he’d lent me and scribbled my number down on a scrap of paper.
“Could you ask him to call me?” I said. “About my dress.”
She smiled knowingly, tucking the paper away. “Of course.”
I thanked her and left quickly, before I could overthink it.
The nearby coffee shop felt like a reward. I ordered a frappe—extra indulgent—and settled into a corner seat, savoring the quiet.
That’s when I saw Kate.
She was hunched over a table like she was guarding it from theft, clutching a coffee with both hands and staring into it as if it had personally betrayed her.
I slid into the seat beside her.
“Sore head?” I teased.
She groaned dramatically. “I am too old to drink like that,” she muttered. “But… worth it.”
I laughed. “You say that now.”
She took a long sip of coffee. “Why are you in this neighborhood?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I replied.
She sighed. “I was supposed to go straight home after dropping you off this morning. But I thought going to the gym might help with the hangover.”
“And?”
“I was very wrong.”
I grinned. “Tragic.”
She smiled weakly, lifting her cup in salute. “Next time, remind me that hydration and self-respect exist.”
“Next time,” I said lightly, though we both knew we wouldn’t listen.
As we sat there, caffeine slowly bringing us back to life, I couldn’t help but feel like things were shifting—quietly, unexpectedly.
And for once, I didn’t feel the need to rush the answers.

.....

I walked the rest of the way home alone.
The city felt slower than usual, the late afternoon sun casting everything in a softer light that didn’t quite match the knot in my chest. My heels clicked against the pavement, the sound grounding me as my thoughts spiraled.
I told myself not to overthink things.
Still, by the time I reached my apartment building, my phone was already in my hand.
I hesitated before typing.
Just wanted to check you got home okay last night.
I stared at the message for a full minute before hitting send.
Almost immediately, I regretted it.
The reply came a few minutes later.
Thank you for checking in, Taylor. I’m perfectly fine. I hope you’re having a good day.
That was it.
No warmth. No humor. No trace of the man who had danced with me, laughed with me, lingered over my hand like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
Just… distance.
My stomach sank.
I reread the message, the formality suddenly feeling loud. Like a door quietly closing. Like a line being redrawn where I hadn’t realized one existed.
Of course, I typed back quickly. Have a good evening.
This time, there was no reply.
I slipped my phone into my bag and unlocked my door, the familiar quiet of my apartment greeting me. Bree wasn’t home yet, and for once, I was grateful for the silence.
I kicked off my shoes and leaned back against the door, exhaling slowly.
Maybe I’d misread everything. Maybe the night before had been a mistake—one too many drinks, too much laughter, blurred boundaries that looked clearer in daylight.
I pushed away from the door and headed inside, determined not to dwell.
Still, as I moved through my apartment, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—subtle but undeniable.
And for the first time since Paris, I wondered if falling hadn’t just bruised my body.
Maybe it had changed the direction of things entirely.