NOVEL NEXT Chapter 61: Sendoff
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Gordon: Besides, if it'd been you, it would have come out as scatalogical—you don't do tame.
Karen: Or penilogical.
Gordon: You're just a very logical person.
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November 16th, 2090, about 1:12 am MST, Montana City
The Q-net signal blinked out just after the call ended. No graceful fade. Just a hard drop. Gordon stared at the blank screen a moment longer than he needed to, then let his eyes close and his breath slow.
He didn't love the way he'd left things.
The apology had been... serviceable. He hadn't deflected this time, which was something. But it was still thinner than it should've been. He hadn't touched the root of her fear. It hadn't felt sufficiently substantive. And now? The window of opportunity was shut.
Sixteen hours to full stable coverage. Maybe twelve to sneak a signal, but Marie had told him more than once: some things shouldn't be handled over text.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
This wasn't the first time. Communication blackouts came with the territory—Marie had always been patient about them. But they had never hit right after a tense call before. The silence felt more final this time, like a pause with no guarantee of resuming at the same pitch.
He flipped his tablet into reader mode and queued up a novel he'd been meaning to finish. Ambient music filled the room—low lo-fi tones, warm chords, the kind of background sound that could put you to sleep if your brain would stop gnawing on itself.
He didn't even make it to the second chapter before the door dinged.
"You thought I was going to let you leave without a sendoff?" Karen's voice called, dripping mischief.
Gordon blinked. "I didn't even consider the question."
She stood in the hall grinning, oversized jug in one hand, a stack of solo cups in the other. The liquid inside was pale green, and the container was sweating with condensation.
"Mojitos," she announced triumphantly. "No mint leaves, just the way Claire likes it. Lime and peppermint extract. And vodka. With strawberries!"
She rattled a Tupperware box.
"That's not how mojitos work."
"It is now. Take it up with your heathen sister."
He didn't apparently smile fast enough.
"Come on, don't be a sad boy with your sad book. Music good. Book bad. Your call: strip poker or Mario Kart?"
He hesitated. He should have said he was actually already going to bed. He should have asked for space. But the guilt sat heavy, and Karen's smile was easy, and the idea of not thinking for a while sounded good.
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He stepped aside. "You're a class act," he told her as she passed, holding up the plastic cups like they were crystal goblets.
They drank. They raced. She was vicious with blue shells and smack talk, and the weariness from his stream was catching up to him–he barely kept up. At some point, she laughed so hard that she spilled her drink all over his bed. He changed the sheet without commentary, or even really minding. Having company was good.
The music kept playing. Hours passed.
At some point—later than he realized—his head started to loll. He stretched, made a joke about falling asleep sitting up. Karen muttered something about switching to water soon. The edges of everything blurred.
He must've dozed off.
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He came awake slowly, not with a start but with a steady creep of awareness. His breath was caught in that half-space between rest and readiness, the way it always was when he knew, somehow, that he wasn't alone.
There was an arm across his chest. A warm, steady weight. The faint pressure of fingers curled near his ribs. And a head—light, soft—resting on his shoulder.
Karen.
This wasn't an awkward, accidental brush of limbs in shared space. She was fully cuddling him—arm over his chest, hip nudged close, breath soft against his collarbone.
Her sweatshirt had hiked up slightly in her sleep, revealing the faint edge of skin at her waist, but otherwise she was fully clothed. Sweatpants, long sleeves. No suggestion of seduction.
Still, he was hyper-aware of her body against his.
His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling. His mind tried to keep still.
What does this mean?
She'd made her feelings clear once. More than once. There'd been that night she showed up in his room, completely naked, and said she liked him. She had not, apparently, been joking. He hadn't followed up on – that would have been wrong. And then… nothing. No follow-up. No push. No escalation. Just Karen again. Business as usual. Mostly.
And then this.
Now she was here. Curled into him, pressed up against his side, completely asleep.
Drunk. Probably. She had hit the "maybe mojito" pitcher pretty hard.
Was this an olive branch? Had she given up her pursuit? Was this her offering comfort—or seeking it?
Gordon's pulse beat a little faster.
It doesn't have to mean anything.
She hadn't come in naked this time. No invitation. No signal. Just sweatpants and vodka and nostalgia. And if they were both lonely, maybe this was just a band-aid for that, for now. Maybe that, more than anything.
She's not making a move, he told himself. She's asleep. She's drunk. This isn't her asking for anything.
He could've shifted away. Could've gotten up and made coffee or gone to the couch. But instead, he stayed still. Convincing himself that it was fine.
It was fine. Probably. He wasn't doing anything. Neither was she. They were just two old friends, crashed out after too many fake mojitos, sharing space like they had a dozen times before. Just a little closer. Just a little warmer.
Just a little too much like the thing Marie was afraid of.
His chest tightened.
But there was nothing to do now. Nothing to say. Marie was off the Q-net. He couldn't call her. No audience or need to explain that this wasn't what it looked like. He couldn't even tell her about the ache in his chest when she'd said she was scared of being the girl on the screen. Couldn't tell her he hated that she was right to worry.
He exhaled slowly. Tried to relax. Tried to stop thinking.
Tried to believe, just long enough to fall back asleep, that nothing about this was setting anything in stone.
Just tired bodies.
Just warmth.
Just comfort.
That was all.