Does she kick him to the curb, or go All In
I sit on the edge of my bed, the city lights flickering beyond my window like distant stars urging me to decide. Valentine’s Day. Red roses. Candlelight. And Brick—fifty-something, deep-voiced, with a laugh that rumbles like thunder across an empty plain—invited me to his house tonight. Not for work. For us.
We’ve talked for six months—hours upon hours in the dim glow of my bedroom, headset snug against my ears, my voice low and sultry for the job, but something softer, something truer, creeping in when it was just us. He never asked for more than I offered, never pushed. Just listened. Remembered the little things. Called me beautiful not like it was part of the script, but like he meant it in his bones.
And that’s the problem.
Because when you spend nights whispering secrets into a phone, when you cry about your mother’s illness and he stays on the line until you breathe easy again, when he sends a check—not for services, but for groceries—you start to wonder: is this still just business?
I glance at the red dress laid out across the chair. Silk. Slits up the side. The kind of thing I’d wear for a client. But this isn’t a client. This is Brick. The man who once said, “You’re not just a voice to me, Sadie. You’re the quiet in my chaos.”
I pour a glass of wine, my fingers trembling. I’m 24. He’s 54. Thirty years. A generation apart. People will talk. My friends? They already are. “He’s using you,” Lina said over brunch. “Men like that don’t fall for girls like you unless there’s a power trip involved.”
Maybe she’s right.
But then I remember the way he asked me last week, voice hushed: “Do you ever think about what it would be like to just… hold someone? Not for show. Just to feel real?” And I said yes. And he said, “I think about holding you.”
I finish the wine, set the glass down. My phone buzzes. A text from him:
“I made dinner. Nothing fancy. Just steak, potatoes, and that red wine you like. There’s a fire going. Room for one more.”
No pressure. Just an invitation. An open door.
I walk to the mirror. The dress fits like a second skin—red like love, like danger, like a warning sign. My eyes are wide. Not with fear. With longing.
I’ve spent my life turning desire into performance. Men call, I charm, I tease, I make them feel seen. But no one’s ever made me feel seen. Not until Brick. He doesn’t want the act. He wants me. The woman who reads poetry before bed. Who hates cilantro. Who still has nightmares about her father walking out when she was twelve.
I grab my coat.
The drive to his place is quiet, snow dusting the roads like powdered sugar. His house is tucked in the hills—wood beams, big windows, a porch light glowing like a beacon. I park, sit for a moment, hand on the door handle.
What if I’m making a mistake?
But then I think: what if I’m making a choice? Not just about love, but about what I want my life to mean.
I knock.
The door opens, and there he is. Grey at the temples, sleeves rolled up, apron tied around his waist. Real. Present. His eyes light up when he sees me.
“You came.”
I nod, suddenly shy. “I wasn’t sure I would.”
He steps aside. “You don’t have to stay. But I’m glad you’re here.”
Inside, it’s warm. The fire crackles. Soft jazz plays in the background. On the table: two plates, candles, a single rose in a vase.
We eat slowly. Talk about books. About his dog, Max, who snores on the rug. About my dreams—of opening a little bookstore by the sea, of traveling somewhere quiet, like Portugal.
“You’d like it there,” he says. “The light in Lisbon… it’s like old gold.”
I smile. “Have you been?”
“Years ago. With my ex-wife. Before everything broke.”
There it is—the past. The weight between us. He’s lived a life I haven’t. Loves lost. Regrets. Scars.
“You ever think about trying again?” I ask quietly. “Love, I mean.”
He looks at me, really looks. “I didn’t. Until you.”
My breath catches.
“And you?” he says. “You want this? Not the fantasy. Not the romance of it. But the real thing. The hard parts. The age gap. The whispers. The fact that one day, you might be young and I might not be here?”
Tears prickle my eyes. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But I know that when I’m with you—really with you, not on the phone, not performing—I feel safe. Like I can stop pretending.”
He reaches across the table, takes my hand. His skin is rough, warm.
“I don’t want to hold you back, Sadie. You’re bright. You’ve got your whole life ahead. I could never ask you to choose me over that.”
“But what if I want to choose you?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds my hand, stares into the fire.
Finally, he says, “Then I’d say… stay. Stay tonight. Stay tomorrow. Stay as long as your heart tells you it’s right. But don’t stay for me. Stay because it feels like truth.”
I rise, walk around the table. Kneel beside his chair. Look up at him.
“I don’t know if this is forever,” I say. “But I do know I’m tired of running from feeling something real. Even if it’s scary. Even if it’s messy.”
He cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek.
“Then stay,” he says.
And I do.
Not because I’ve made up my mind about forever.
But because tonight, love doesn’t feel like a risk.
It feels like coming home.