CHAPTER 7: Close Quarters

Derek's Pov

I stood in my workshop staring at a piece of wood, seeing none of it. My hands moved on autopilot while my mind replayed this morning on an endless loop. Maya falling. My arms catching her. The perfect way she fit against my chest.

I was in serious trouble.

My phone buzzed. Sophie.

"Dad, where are you? We need more boxes from the attic and Maya's up there alone. Can you go help her? My boss won't stop talking."

Every rational part of my brain screamed this was a terrible idea. Maya and I alone in a small space after what happened this morning? After the texts last night?

"Sure," I heard myself say. "I'll head up now."

Because apparently, I was a masochist.

By the time I reached the attic, I'd built up a decent wall of self-control. Then I climbed up and saw her.

Maya was crouched next to boxes, dust smudged on her cheek, hair falling out of her ponytail. She looked up and something flickered across her face.

"Sophie sent me," I said. "Her call's running long."

"I'm fine. I can handle it."

"I know you can." I climbed up fully. The attic suddenly felt like a shoebox. "But there's no reason to do it alone."

I grabbed a box to give my hands something to do. The label said "Christmas 1998" in Catherine's handwriting. A lifetime ago.

"Your ex-wife's handwriting?" Maya asked.

"Yeah. She was always organized about this stuff."

"Do you miss her?"

The question caught me off guard. Most people didn't ask direct questions like that.

"No," I said honestly. "I miss what I thought we had. But I don't miss her. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah. It does."

I pulled another box over, this one filled with old photo albums. I shouldn't have opened it. But my hands moved before my brain caught up.

The first photo was from Sophie's fifth birthday. Catherine and I standing behind our daughter, smiling. We looked happy.

"You look different," Maya said, leaning closer. Close enough that I could smell her shampoo. "Younger."

"I was younger. Nineteen years ago." I flipped the page. More birthday parties. Holidays. A whole life documented in fading photographs. "I thought we were solid. Twenty years together. I thought we were working through our problems."

"What happened?"

I should have deflected. Given her the sanitized version. But something about the dim light and Maya's genuine interest made me want to tell the truth.

"She said I was boring." The words came out flat. "That I'd become predictable. That she felt like she was suffocating in our life together."

Maya didn't say anything, just waited.

"She left me for her yoga instructor. A thirty-two-year-old guy named River who lived in a van." I laughed, but it came out bitter. "I tried to convince her to stay. To go to counseling. She looked at me like I was proving her point. Like wanting to fight for my marriage made me pathetic."

"You're not pathetic."

"I felt pathetic. Like I'd failed at being a husband. Being interesting enough to keep my wife's attention." I closed the album harder than necessary. "The worst part was she wasn't wrong. I had gotten boring. I threw everything into work and being a dad and forgot how to be a person."

"That's not boring. That's being responsible."

"It's hard not to internalize it when someone you've known for two decades tells you that you're not enough."

Maya moved closer. I could feel the warmth of her beside me. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're boring."

I turned to look at her. Big mistake. She was right there, her eyes serious and sincere.

"No?"

"No. You're passionate about your work. You built this incredible house. You care about designing spaces that make people's lives better. You listen when people talk. Really listen." She paused. "That day at Sophie's graduation, you asked me about my thesis. Most parents just nodded politely. You wanted to understand the psychology behind it. We talked for an hour and you never once checked your phone."

"That's because there wasn't anyone more interesting." The words came out before I could stop them.

The air between us shifted. Charged. Dangerous.

"Derek..."

"I should shut up. I know I should." But I couldn't stop talking. "That day changed something for me. After Catherine left, I convinced myself I was done. Then I met you and something woke up that I thought was dead."

"We can't do this."

"I know. You're Sophie's best friend. You're half my age. There are about a hundred reasons this is wrong."

"Then why are we still talking about it?"

"Because I barely slept last night. Because when you fell this morning and I caught you, all I could think about was how right it felt. Because I've spent three years trying to forget you and it hasn't worked." I moved closer without meaning to. "Because I look at you and I don't feel boring. I feel alive."

Maya's breath caught. We were inches apart now, the space between us crackling.

"What would you have done?" she asked quietly. "If Sophie hadn't called us down. What were you going to do?"

"Honestly? I don't know. Part of me wanted to kiss you. Part of me wanted to run. Part of me wanted to ask if you felt even a fraction of what I'm feeling."

"And if I said I did?"

My heart stopped. "Do you?"

She opened her mouth to answer. Her eyes said yes before she could form the words.

"Dad! Maya! Did you guys get lost up there?" Sophie's voice floated up from below, followed by footsteps.

We jumped apart like guilty teenagers. Maya grabbed a random box. I grabbed another. By the time Sophie's head appeared, we were on opposite sides of the attic.

"There you guys are! What's taking so long?"

"Just trying to find the right boxes," I said, my voice surprisingly normal. "There's a lot of stuff up here."

"Well, hurry up. Jason wants to order pizza."

Maya and I made two more trips up and down, carefully not making eye contact, not speaking beyond necessary coordination. The moment in the attic hung between us, unfinished and dangerous.

That evening, I escaped to my workshop. Tried to focus on Sophie's bookshelf. But my hands were shaking.

I pulled out my phone. Typed and deleted messages to Maya. Finally settled on something honest.

"I keep replaying this morning. When I caught you. The way you felt."

Her response came quickly. "We said we weren't going to do this."

"I know. I'm sorry. Deleting your number right now."

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

"Okay I lied. I can't delete it. But I'll stop texting. I promise."

Her next message surprised me.

"What were you going to say in the attic? Before Sophie interrupted?"

My fingers hovered. This was my chance to back out. To lie. To pretend.

Instead, I told the truth.

"I was going to say that I've dated since my divorce. Tried to find someone who made me feel even a fraction of what I felt in one afternoon with you three years ago. No one came close. And now you're here, in my house, and it's taking everything I have not to knock on your door."

I hit send and immediately wanted to throw my phone into the woods. Too much.

Her response took longer this time.

"Don't knock on my door."

My heart sank. Right. Of course.

"I won't."

"Promise."

"I promise. Goodnight, Maya."

I set my phone down and stood at the window, looking up at her light, wondering what she was thinking.

Wondering how I was going to survive thirteen more days of this.