Page 66 of Set to Love

Always is.

After that, the messages grew further apart. A photo. A question. A quick reply. Then nothing for hours.

He’s settling back into his life—auditions, dance classes, family, friends—while I’m still trying to figure out what mine even looks like now. We’d spent nearly every day together while he was in Florida. Now, our conversations have to squeeze into the gaps between everything else. An ocean has a way of making the simplest things feel complicated.

I stare at his last message a second longer. I could ask how pub quiz night went, if he’d heard anything about the audition, or any of the other questions that keep circling my head.

But I don’t. Every day he’s back in London, I feel myself fading a little further into the background. The thought stings more than I want it to, but it’s for the best. I need to stop reaching for my phone every time he crosses my mind. It’ll hurt less now than it will later.

I tap my thumb against the screen.

Katie

Hey Max. Hope your day went well today.

Then I pull up the thread with my parents.

Dad

Just saw the scoreline from last weekend. Looked like you played well.

Dad

Did any of your friends happen to take a video?

Dad

Didn’t see anything online.

Katie

It was an ITF. They don’t normally stream qualifying.

Katie

Thanks. I’m proud of how I played. Learned a lot.

Dad

That’s my girl.

Dad

Keep building on it. Love you.

Katie

Call you guys this weekend. Love you too.

Without an immediate reply from Max, my restlessness kicks in. I launch my browser and type Greek myths into the search bar, scrolling through names like Orpheus, Perseus, Odysseus, and Achilles, wondering what this new musical could be about.

I really should be using this time to look at used-car listings or apartments, but researching Greek myths is a lot easier than thinking about my own future.

I’m deep into an article about the tragedy of Icarus flying too close to the sun when a shadow falls over my phone screen.

“You know, Icarus wouldn’t have crashed if he’d worked on his vertical jump,” a familiar voice says.

I startle, nearly knocking my phone into the sink. Theo’s leaning against the door frame in one of his signature three-piece suits, his arms crossed. His worn leather suitcase is by his side.