Episode 5 : Shadows of comfort

The November wind howled through Crestwood, rattling the windows of The Dandelion Pour as Anne polished the bar counter, her movements slow and mechanical. The bar was quiet tonight, a handful of regulars nursing drinks under the dim glow of string lights, their murmurs swallowed by the jukebox's mournful tune. Three weeks had passed since Deon left for the world tour—his plane lifting off for London, the first leg of a six-month odyssey—and the space he'd left behind felt cavernous. She missed him fiercely: his scribbled notes cluttering her desk, his grin lighting up the bar's edge, the way he'd lean into her after a long night. Video calls and texts kept them tethered—his last message, sent from Tokyo, rambled about ramen and neon lights—but the distance gnawed at her, a quiet ache she couldn't shake.The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold and a familiar figure—Gary, his tie-dye shirt swapped for a thick sweater, his sun-bleached hair tousled by the wind. He carried a stack of flyers and that same boundless energy, his grin cutting through the bar's gloom like a spotlight."Anne!" he called, striding over. "Thought I'd find you here—place looks cozy as ever."She managed a smile, setting the rag down. "Hey, Gary. What's up?""Freezing out there," he said, sliding onto a stool. "Needed a warm spot and good company. Got anything hot?""Mulled wine okay?" she asked, already reaching for a bottle."Perfect," he said, his eyes bright. "You're a lifesaver."She poured the spiced red into a mug, the steam curling between them as she slid it over. He'd been dropping by more since Deon left—first with rally talk, then casual chats that stretched late into the night. At first, it was just noise to fill the void, but lately, his presence felt like a balm—warm, steady, a distraction from the silence."How's the bar holding up?" he asked, sipping the wine."Good," she said, leaning on the counter. "Slow tonight, but steady. Thinking of that live music idea—might kick it off soon.""Love that," Gary said, his grin widening. "Hey, speaking of—my coalition's hosting a town hall next week. Big push for clean energy grants. Could use a venue like this—draw a crowd, get folks talking. What do you say?"She hesitated, Deon's wariness flickering in her mind. "I don't know—bar's neutral ground. Don't want it turning political.""It's not politics—it's community," he said smoothly, leaning closer. "You'd be helping Crestwood—better jobs, cleaner air. Plus, it'd pack the place. Think of the buzz for The Dandelion Pour."His enthusiasm tugged at her, a spark against her loneliness. "Maybe," she said. "Let me mull it over.""Take your time," he said, but his eyes held hers, warm and coaxing. "You're the heart of this town, Anne—people listen when you're in."She flushed, caught by the compliment, and poured herself a glass of wine to steady her nerves. Gary stayed, chatting about his plans—solar panels, wind farms, a greener Crestwood—his voice a steady hum that filled the empty spaces Deon had left. When the last regular shuffled out, he lingered, helping her stack chairs, his presence a quiet comfort she hadn't expected to crave.Halfway across the world, Deon stood on a Tokyo balcony, the city sprawling below in a neon haze. The air smelled of soy and exhaust, and the hum of traffic blended with the chatter of his fellow journalists—twelve of them, handpicked by Maxwell Hargrove, now scattered across the hotel suite behind him. He clutched a notebook, its pages filled with notes from today's assignment—a shadow market peddling tech secrets—and a beer dangled from his other hand, condensation dripping onto the railing.Hargrove leaned against the doorframe, a wiry man in his sixties with gray hair and a voice like gravel. "Good work today, Travers," he said, lighting a cigarette. "You've got an eye for the underbelly—raw, but sharp.""Thanks," Deon said, forcing a grin. "Learning fast.""Keep it up," Hargrove said, exhaling smoke. "Next stop's Mumbai—messier streets, bigger stories. You ready?""Yeah," Deon lied, his mind drifting to Anne. He'd called her last night, her face pixelated but smiling on his screen, her voice tinny as she described a slow shift. She'd sounded steady, but he'd caught a tremor—something off she wouldn't name. Three weeks in, and the tour was everything he'd dreamed—electric, chaotic, a crash course in global truths—but every thrill came with a pang. He missed her, ached for her, and the distance stretched wider with each mile.He pulled out his phone, thumbing through photos—her behind the bar, them at the beach, that dandelion night with fireflies. His chest tightened, a mix of love and doubt. Was she okay? Was he?Back in Crestwood, the days blurred into a rhythm of bar shifts and Gary's visits. He'd show up with coffee in the mornings, chatting about his coalition over pastries, or linger late with a beer, spinning plans that wove her into them. His energy was contagious, peeling back her loneliness, and she found herself laughing more—his quips, his easy charm filling the gaps Deon's absence carved.One night, as she locked up, Gary lingered by the door, his sweater swapped for a jacket, a flyer in hand. "Got a favor," he said, his tone light but pointed. "Need some signatures for the grant petition—nothing big, just a push. Could you leave these out on the bar? Folks trust you—they'll sign if you're behind it."Anne took the flyer, skimming it—Support Crestwood's Green Future. "I don't know, Gary. Feels like I'm picking a side.""You're not," he said, stepping closer, his voice softening. "You're just helping—giving people a chance to care. You're good at that, Anne—making things matter."His hazel eyes held hers, warm and steady, and her resolve wavered. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll put them out. But no pressure on my customers.""Deal," he grinned, brushing her arm—a touch too linger—and she felt a flutter, a spark she hadn't expected. "You're the best, you know that?"She smiled, heat creeping up her neck, and watched him go, the night swallowing his silhouette. Alone, she leaned against the bar, the flyer crumpled in her hand, and wondered why her heart raced—for him, for Deon, for something she couldn't name.Over the next week, Gary's influence deepened, subtle but insistent. He'd drop by with ideas—host a fundraiser, name a drink after his cause—and Anne, caught in his orbit, agreed more than she questioned. The petition flyers multiplied, stacking up beside the register, and regulars began signing, drawn by her quiet endorsement. She told herself it was business—boosting the bar, helping the town—but each step felt like his, not hers.One evening, he stayed late, the bar empty save for them, the jukebox crooning a slow ballad. He leaned on the counter, closer than usual, his voice low. "You're amazing, Anne—running this place, keeping it real. Deon's lucky to have you."She paused, wiping a glass, the mention of Deon a jolt. "He's doing big things out there.""Sure," Gary said, his tone casual but edged. "But he's gone, and you're here—holding it down. Takes guts. I'd never leave someone like you behind."Her breath caught, his words sinking in—comforting, yet sharp. "He'll be back," she said, more to herself than him."Course," Gary replied, but his hand brushed hers, lingering, and she didn't pull away. "Still, you deserve someone here—someone who sees you."The air thickened, charged with something she couldn't deny—a pull, a warmth that felt like betrayal but tasted like solace. She looked at him—his easy grin, his steady gaze—and felt herself slipping, falling into the comfort he offered, a lifeline in Deon's absence.In Tokyo, Deon sat in a cramped izakaya, the tour group scattered across wooden benches, sake cups clinking. Hargrove was mid-story—a tale of dodging bullets in Sarajevo—when Deon's phone buzzed. A text from Kim: Heads-up—Gary's cozying up to Anne. Bar's buzzing with his green crap. She's fine, but watch it.His stomach dropped, the room tilting. Gary—too slick, too close—worming into her life while he was half a world away. He typed a quick reply—Thanks, keep an eye out—then called Anne, the line crackling with static."Hey," she answered, her voice sleepy but warm. "You okay?""Yeah," he said, forcing calm. "How's the bar?""Good," she said, a pause stretching too long. "Gary's been around—helping with some stuff. Petitions, ideas. Keeps me company."Deon's grip tightened on the phone. "You trust him?""He's fine," she said, a hint of defense in her tone. "Just a friend. How's Japan?""Busy," he said, sidestepping. "Miss you, Anne. A lot.""Miss you too," she replied, softer now. "Call soon?""Promise," he said, hanging up as the izakaya's noise swallowed him. He stared at the screen, Kim's warning echoing—Gary, filling his space, winning her over. Doubt clawed at him, a fear he couldn't name.Back at the bar, Anne locked up alone, Gary's jacket slung over a stool where he'd left it. She picked it up, the scent of cedar and salt clinging to it, and felt that flutter again—a slow fall into something she didn't want to admit. Deon was her heart, her home, but Gary was here—tangible, present, a comfort she leaned into more each day. His biddings—petitions, plans—wove her into his world, and she followed, not seeing the strings.The night pressed against the windows, and Anne stood in the quiet, torn between the man she loved across the sea and the one pulling her closer, step by subtle step.