Chapter 2: Quiet Orbit
Bill parks beneath the giant sycamore like he always does—far enough from the porch that the headlights won't wake the whole damn neighborhood, but close enough that he won't trip over a root in the dark. The familiar crunch of gravel on the path underfoot is a kind of homecoming. He kills the engine, pockets the keys, and stares at the soft yellow glow coming through Shay's front window.
For a moment, he just sits there, one hand on the wheel, thumb tapping slowly against the leather. He knows what this is. They both do. It's not love, and neither of them pretends otherwise. But there's something in the routine—this quiet orbit they've kept for years—that he finds strangely grounding.
He knocks because that's what she prefers. No texts, no headlights flashing in the drive. Just three soft raps on the door. It opens almost immediately.
"Thought I heard my yellow dinosaur out there," Shay says, stepping aside to let him in. She's barefoot, wearing an old concert tee and loose flannel pants, her hair pulled up into a messy knot that somehow makes her look more elegant, not less.
"I come bearing gifts," Bill says, holding up a bag from the 24-hour taco place. "Bribery, in case you were about to pretend you were asleep."
She lifts an eyebrow. "Depends. Did you remember the hot sauce this time?"
He grins. "I brought enough to chemically strip paint."
She laughs—low and real—and takes the bag from him. "Then you may enter."
The living room looks the same as always. Plants spilling from corners, stacks of books in unstable towers, a record spinning something moody in the background. Bill drops onto the couch like he's done it a couple dozen times. He has.
Shay disappears into the kitchen and calls out over the sound of rustling foil. "How long you in town?"
"Few weeks give or take, depending on how things go." He doesn't mention the feeling gnawing at his gut that something in his life needs to change.
She returns with two tacos and a beer for each of them, settling onto the other end of the couch. "You always say that."
"And sometimes it's even true."
They eat in comfortable silence, trading bites, and eye rolls at the music selection, like old friends or something close to it. When the food's gone and the beers are mostly empty, she stretches her legs out and nudges his thigh with her toes.
"You look tired," she says.
"I feel older every time I come back."
"Maybe it's the company you keep."
He smirks but doesn't answer. She doesn't press.
There's a pause—an in-between moment—and he wonders, not for the first time, what would've happened if he'd met her in another chapter of his life. Somewhere with less baggage. But then she shifts the conversation to something lighter, a story about a neighbor's dog that's been stealing laundry, and the moment passes like so many before it.
Later, when the quiet deepens and the space between them narrows, they'll sleep in the same bed like they have a dozen times, maybe more. No declarations. No expectations. Just the comfort of someone who knows how to be present without asking for more than you can give.
As he lays back and lets the music carry them toward whatever comes next, Bill figures that's enough—for tonight.
© 2025 Brian Fleig All Rights Reserved.
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