Page 418 of Face Off

When I reach her, I will tell her.

Before leaving, I open the group chat.

Ryan: I’m doing a thing. Don’t trip, but I’m headed to Kimball.

Three dots appear beneath Cade’s name almost immediately.

Cade: What thing?

Ryan: You should all know I’m in this mess because Cade gives awful advice.

Cade: I told you to respond to her email.

Ryan: You encouraged communication.

Cade: Driving around Lake Michigan without telling her is not communication.

Ryan: Explain that to everyone after I leave.

Easton: Is this an emergency?

Ryan: No.

Rider: Is this romantic?

Ryan: Shut the fuck up.

Rider: That means yes.

Briggs: If anyone needs me I am dead until noon.

Cade: Ryan, call me.

I silence the chat, grab my keys, and leave before Cade attempts to prevent me from following the spirit of his advice.

The roads out of Milwaukee are almost empty. Snow follows me around the lake and into Michigan, falling heavily enough to soften the highway without making it dangerous. I stop twice for coffee and once for gas, checking my phone each time despite knowing I would hear it if Charm called.

Nothing waits for me.

By the time I reach Kimball Falls, Main Street is crowded with Black Friday shoppers carrying bags, coffee, and the kind of seasonal aggression usually reserved for playoff hockey. Cars occupy every available space along the curb. Holiday music plays through outdoor speakers while children move between decorated storefronts and several grown adults argue outside a shop advertising half-priced candles.

Encanto sits halfway down the block with Charm’s loft occupying the floor above it.

I recognize her in every inch of the building before I reach the door. The cream lettering across the front windows is elegant without becoming delicate, and the clothes displayed behind the glass demand attention without begging anyone to approve of them. One mannequin wears a structured burgundy dress beneath a cropped black jacket. Another stands in wide-legged trousers and a silk blouse the color of champagne.

Charm built this.

She created a business beneath the place where she sleeps and filled both with things chosen entirely by her. No trust fund placed her name above the door. No family connection built the displays or turned sketches into clothes other women carry home. Encanto exists because Charm wanted something and stopped waiting for permission to claim it.

The realization reaches deeper now that I’ve come here prepared to ask her to bring that life into mine.

I open the door and step into warmth, perfume, and organized Black Friday chaos. Customers fill the floor while two employees move between racks and fitting rooms. A woman behind the counter looks toward me, glances at the Inferno logo on my sweatshirt, and becomes still.

Beyond her, the door to Charm’s office stands open.

The glass dress rests on her desk.

Blush-pink glass lifts around the skirt as though a breeze has caught it. Gold winds through the bodice and spills into the folds while crystals at the waist scatter pale winter light across the papers surrounding it. She placed it where she works, close enough to touch whenever she sits behind the desk.