Chapter 9 - Miami at Midnight
“I don’t think three days is enough to know if I’m in love with you.”
Camille blinked.
Of every sentence she expected, that was not one.
“Okay.”
Ethan laughed nervously through the phone.
“That sounded better in my head.”
“I’m listening.”
He lowered his voice.
“What I do know is that I haven’t felt this awake in years.”
Camille closed her eyes.
“I think about you constantly.”
He continued.
“And that is deeply inconvenient.”
She laughed.
“I miss you and you haven’t even boarded.”
“I’m still listening.”
“I don’t want you believing this was a vacation thing.”
The airport announcement grew louder behind him.
“I don’t know what this becomes. But I want the chance to find out.”
Camille’s eyes filled.
“So do I.”
Silence.
Then Ethan exhaled.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I had a longer speech.”
“Of course you did.”
“I edited it three times.”
“Of course you did.”
A boarding agent called his group.
Ethan groaned.
“I have to go.”
“I know.”
“Camille?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t wait for me.”
Her smile disappeared.
“What?”
“That came out wrong.”
“Extremely.”
“I mean live your life.”
He spoke quickly.
“Don’t turn me into another person whose arrival determines whether you move forward.”
Camille understood.
And because she understood, she loved the sentence even though it hurt.
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
“But Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t get to use that as permission to disappear.”
“I won’t.”
“We’ll see.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Absolutely.”
He laughed.
Then a pause.
“I’ll call when I land.”
“You better.”
The call ended.
Camille sat alone in her apartment.
For the first time in years, the future contained no André.
And for the first time in three days, it contained no Ethan physically nearby.
The quiet was enormous.
At 12:06 a.m., André texted.
At the airport. Flight delayed.
Camille stared.
She considered not responding.
Then decided endings deserved kindness.
Safe travels.
A minute later:
Thank you for today.
Camille typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Thank you for telling me the truth.
André replied:
I wish I had done it sooner.
Then:
I hope Seattle guy knows how lucky he is.
Camille smiled sadly.
There is no Seattle guy yet.
His response came quickly.
There is definitely a Seattle guy.
Camille laughed.
Then the tears arrived.
Not dramatic sobs.
Quiet grief.
She cried for the nineteen-year-old girl who believed love guaranteed a shared future.
For the twenty-nine-year-old woman who returned an engagement ring at an airport.
For every time she saw André’s name on her screen and mistook possibility for progress.
She cried until midnight became one.
Then she slept.
In Seattle, Ethan landed to chaos.
By the time he reached the office, it was nearly midnight Pacific time.
More than seventy people occupied conference rooms, remote calls, incident channels, and temporary workstations.
His manager, Priya Shah, met him at the elevator.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, I did.”
She handed him a badge.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You were supposed to be on vacation.”
“It ended.”
Priya studied him.
“Something happened.”
“My best friend got married.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Ethan kept walking.
Priya followed.
“You have a Florida face.”
He stopped.
“A what?”
“I don’t know. You look emotionally inconvenienced.”
“That isn’t a thing.”
“It is now.”
For the next thirteen hours Ethan did not have time to think about Camille.
That was probably good.
The system failure was complex but recoverable.
No permanent patient records were lost.
Hospitals were gradually reconnecting.
Teams worked through the night.
At 7:30 a.m., Ethan realized he had not called.
He looked at the time difference.
10:30 in Miami.
Three missed messages.
Camille.
Landed?
Then:
I assume either your plane crashed or you became responsible immediately after landing.
Then:
Please choose option two.
Ethan smiled.
He called.
She answered.
“You’re alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No apology necessary. I googled your flight.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
“That feels stalker-adjacent.”
“I learned from Elise.”
“How are you?”
A pause.
“Strange.”
“Good strange?”
“Some.”
“Bad strange?”
“Some.”
He understood.
“How’s André?”
“Gone.”
“Gone Miami or gone—”
“Both.”
Ethan leaned against a conference-room wall.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re allowed to be a little happy.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s annoyingly decent.”
“Give me time.”
Camille smiled into the phone.
He could hear it.
They spoke for seven minutes.
Then Ethan had to return to work.
That became their pattern.
Short calls.
Long texts.
Photos of ordinary things.
Camille sent him a picture of coffee spilled across her desk.
Ethan sent her an image of three empty energy drink cans beside a server diagram.
Camille replied:
Your body is a temple.
He answered:
A poorly maintained office building.
For the first week, everything felt easy.
Distance protected them from difficult questions.
They could miss each other without confronting logistics.
Then Friday night arrived.
Ethan called.
Camille did not answer.
He tried again two hours later.
Nothing.
Saturday morning, still nothing.
At noon he received a message.
Sorry. Busy day. Talk later?
It should have been normal.
Instead Ethan felt the first quiet stir of fear.
By Sunday, Camille had become distant.
Short replies.
No calls.
Ethan tried not to push.
Monday morning, Elise called him.
“You need to know something.”
Ethan closed his laptop.
“What happened?”
Elise hesitated.
“André didn’t go to Dubai.”
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He turned it down.”
Silence.
May you like
“And yesterday,” Elise continued, “he came back to Miami.”
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