Episode 8: Words and wonder

Saturday morning arrived with a drizzle that streaked the apartment windows, a gray veil over the world outside. Anne stood by the door, her bag packed with snacks and toys, her expression a mix of determination and mild panic. She was headed to her cousin Lisa's place to babysit Lisa's triplets—three-year-old whirlwinds named Mia, Max, and Milo—while Lisa and her husband took a rare weekend away. Deon watched her from the couch, his notebook open on his lap, a half-finished article about a man who built houses from river stones scrawled across the page."You sure you'll survive?" he asked, grinning as she shoved a pack of crayons into her already bulging bag.Anne shot him a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. "I'll manage. They're cute, but they're chaos incarnate. You're lucky you're not roped into this.""Maybe I'd be good with kids," he said, leaning back. "I was your sidekick once—could handle a few tiny humans."She snorted, adjusting her coat. "These aren't pillow dragons, Deon. They bite. And smear jam everywhere."He laughed, a sound that warmed the room despite the gloom outside. "Fair. What about you? Need a rescue call later?""I'll text if I'm drowning," she said, then paused, her gaze softening. "What'll you do all day? More writing?"Deon shrugged, tapping his pen against the notebook. "Thought I might look for a job. Those articles—I'm good at them, right? Maybe I can make something of it."Anne's eyebrows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "Yeah, you are. Really good. You should go for it."He nodded, the idea solidifying as she spoke. "I will. Good luck with the triplets.""You too," she said, then slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her.The apartment fell quiet, the drizzle's soft patter the only sound. Deon stared at the empty space where Anne had been, a strange ache settling in his chest. She'd become his tether, his reason for being here, and without her, the day stretched out like an uncharted map. He shook it off, flipping his notebook shut. Time to find his own path.Deon pulled on his green jacket and headed downtown, the rain a light mist against his face. He'd spent the morning scouring online job listings, his laptop humming on Anne's desk, and one caught his eye: a junior reporter position at The Crestwood Chronicle, a small but respected local paper. They wanted a cover letter and samples—easy enough, since he'd written plenty by now. He'd emailed his application, including "The Man Who Walked Out of Nothing" and a newer piece about the farmer's market's hidden stories, then decided to drop by in person. A hunch, maybe, or just restlessness pushing him out the door.The Chronicle office was a narrow brick building sandwiched between a deli and a thrift shop, its windows papered with old headlines. Inside, the air smelled of ink and coffee, and the hum of keyboards filled the space. A receptionist with a bored expression glanced up as he approached."Here about the reporter job," Deon said, offering a smile. "Sent my stuff this morning—thought I'd introduce myself."She raised an eyebrow, then buzzed someone on her headset. "Kim, got a walk-in for the junior gig."A moment later, a woman emerged from the back—mid-thirties, with sharp cheekbones, a messy bun of dark hair, and a pencil tucked behind her ear. She carried a stack of papers and a mug that read "Deadlines Are My Cardio.""Kim Blair," she said, extending a hand. "You the guy who emailed?""Deon," he replied, shaking it. "Yeah, that's me."She squinted at him, then nodded. "Good timing. Editor's out, but I'm on the hiring team. Let's see what you've got."They sat in a cramped office, Kim skimming his samples on her tablet while Deon tried not to fidget. Her face stayed neutral, but her eyes flicked faster as she read."This one," she said, tapping "The Man Who Walked Out of Nothing," "it's raw, but it's got soul. Where'd you learn to write like that?""Self-taught," he said, which wasn't a lie. "Picked it up from a friend—she's a writer too."Kim nodded, impressed. "Well, you've got a knack. We're short-staffed, and the pay's not great, but if you can start Monday, you're in. Trial run—see if you sink or swim."Deon grinned, a surge of triumph lighting him up. "I'll swim.""Good," she said, standing. "Grab a coffee, stick around. I'll show you the ropes."The rest of the morning blurred into a crash course on journalism—deadlines, sources, the paper's ancient printer that jammed every third page. Kim was brisk but friendly, tossing him tips between sips of her coffee. She'd been at the Chronicle for five years, she said, covering everything from city council scandals to lost dog sagas."You're not from around here, are you?" she asked as they sorted through a pile of press releases."Not exactly," Deon said, dodging the truth. "Moved in with a friend recently.""Lucky friend," Kim replied, smirking. "She the one who taught you to write?""Yeah. Anne." He paused, her name sparking something warm in his chest. "She's… special."Kim raised an eyebrow but didn't pry. "Well, tell her she's got a good student."They worked through lunch—Kim ordered sandwiches from the deli next door—and by afternoon, Deon felt a rhythm settling in. He liked Kim's no-nonsense vibe, the way she cut through bullshit with a dry laugh. A friend, maybe, his first outside Anne. It felt good, carving out a space of his own.But as the day wore on, his thoughts kept drifting back to Anne. He pictured her with the triplets—chasing them around, laughing through the chaos, her hair a mess and her patience thinning. He'd seen her strength, her quiet fire, in every moment since he'd arrived—facing Justin, steadying him at the park, trusting him with her world. She was more than his creator now, more than a tether. She was home.Sitting at a cluttered desk, drafting a short piece about a local bakery's revival, he let his mind wander. Her laugh, sharp and bright. Her touch, hesitant but real, in the photo booth's awkward tumble. The way she'd leaned into him after Justin's betrayal, a silent thank-you he'd felt in his bones. He stopped writing, the pen hovering over the page, and a truth hit him like a tidal wave: he loved her.Not the childish devotion of the boy he'd been, tagging along in her make-believe. This was deeper, a ache that bloomed from every shared glance, every quiet moment. He loved her resilience, her quirks, the way she'd welcomed him despite the impossibility of it all. He loved her, and it scared him—because what did that mean for someone like him, a shadow made flesh?Kim's voice broke his reverie. "You okay over there? Look like you've seen a ghost."He blinked, forcing a grin. "Just thinking. Got carried away."" Happens to the best of us," she said, tossing him a stapler. "Finish that draft—deadline's Monday."He nodded, diving back in, but the realization lingered, a quiet hum beneath his work.By evening, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflective as Deon walked home. The Chronicle job was his—a paycheck, a purpose, a step into the real world. Kim had clapped him on the shoulder as he left, saying, "See you Monday, newbie." He liked her already, her sharp wit a counterpoint to his own restless energy.But it was Anne he wanted to tell, Anne he wanted to see. He let himself into the apartment, the silence greeting him like an old friend, and grabbed his notebook. He wrote—fast, messy—pouring out what he couldn't say yet: She's the story I never knew I'd write, the one that keeps me here, real and alive. I love her, and I don't know what that makes me, but I know it's true.He tore the page out, folded it, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Not now—not with triplets and chaos—but soon.His phone buzzed: a text from Anne. Help. Milo ate a crayon. Send wine.He laughed, typing back: On my way. Got news too.Grabbing a bottle of red from her stash, he headed out, the night cool and sharp around him. Lisa's place was a twenty-minute walk, and when he arrived, the door flew open to reveal Anne—hair wild, a smear of jam on her cheek, holding a squirming Milo under one arm."You're a saint," she said, snatching the wine as Mia and Max barreled past, shrieking about dragons."Rough day?" he asked, stepping inside."You have no idea," she groaned, setting Milo down. He toddled off, leaving a trail of giggles. "What's your news?""Got a job," he said, unable to hide his grin. "Junior reporter at The Crestwood Chronicle. Start Monday."Anne's face lit up, fatigue forgotten. "Deon, that's amazing! I knew you could do it!"She hugged him, quick and fierce, and he felt that ache again—love, sharp and bright. "Thanks," he said, pulling back before it overwhelmed him. "Met a cool coworker too—Kim Blair. She's helping me settle in.""Kim Blair," Anne repeated, nodding. "Sounds like a good ally. Tell me everything."They sat on Lisa's couch, the triplets tumbling around them, and he recounted the day—the office, Kim's quips, the thrill of being hired. Anne listened, sipping wine, her laughter mingling with the kids' chaos. Milo climbed into Deon's lap, smearing jam on his jacket, and he didn't mind. This—her, them, the mess—was where he wanted to be.Later, as the triplets finally crashed on a pile of blankets, Anne leaned against him, exhausted but content. "You're full of surprises," she murmured."So are you," he said, his voice soft. He didn't say the rest—not yet—but it burned in him, a truth he'd carry until the moment was right.Deon had wanted a place in the world. He'd found it—and with it, a love he hadn't dared imagine.