Amy had been buzzing for weeks, counting down the days to that cruise--her family all together, parents, sister, nieces running wild. She could already see it: sun-soaked afternoons by the pool, cocktails in hand (virgin, sure, but still fancy), and laughter spilling over long dinners.
Then the email came. Work. Last-minute. Non-negotiable.
She stared at the screen, willing it to change, but the words stayed stubbornly there. And just like that, the cruise became a slideshow of what-ifs: turquoise waters she wouldn't sail, snapshots she wouldn't be in.
Her sister's voice rang in her head, casual but cutting. "It won't be the same without you, Ames, but we'll send pictures!"
Yeah. Pictures. Great. Amy shut her laptop a little harder than necessary, sat back, and let the silence press in.
It wasn't just the trip--it was them. The moments. The chance to feel like she belonged in the fold again, instead of on the edges, always tethered to some deadline or another. She shoved the thought aside, but it clung, sharp and heavy, right there in her chest.
Honestly, the cruise wasn't just a vacation for Amy--it was supposed to be her reset button. A break from the ache she'd been lugging around ever since that two-year train wreck of a relationship had screeched to a halt. Sun, salt air, family -- it all sounded like just what she needed to patch herself up.
But no. Work had other plans.
And, as if things couldn't get messier, her sister had called the same day with a favor wrapped in guilt. "Hey, so... Adam's starting grad school near you, only 40 miles away. Can he crash with you for a few days? Just while he gets settled?"
Adam. The golden boy. Her perfect nephew, sure, but also a walking whirlwind of energy and noise. Amy pictured her moderate condo, already feeling too small for her own life, now filled with his endless chatter, sneakers kicked off in the wrong corner, and late-night snack raids.
She'd swallowed hard, biting back her first instinct to scream. "Yeah, sure," she'd said instead, the words tasting bitter. Because saying no wasn't an option--not in her family.
Adam had a knack for making it all look easy. Fresh out of school with a civil engineering degree in hand, he spent his days buried in blueprints and equations, piecing together the bones of future skylines. But come evening? That's when he came alive.
You'd find him on any patch of open ground--cracked concrete courts, scruffy fields--with a basketball or soccer ball at his feet. No teams, no refs, no pressure to keep score. Just the slap of the ball on pavement and the clean arc of a perfect shot. That was his sweet spot, where the world narrowed to nothing but the rhythm of the game.
But his real love? That was comedy. Every couple of weeks, he'd slip into some dimly lit dive with a bar that stuck to your elbows and a stage barely big enough for a mic stand. His battered notebook--corners curling, pages crammed with scribbles--was always in tow.
Up there, under the heat of the stage lights, Adam wasn't just a guy who could design bridges. He was sharp, relentless, throwing out punchlines like fastballs. The crowd's laughter hit him like fuel, lighting him up from the inside out. Didn't matter if it was a belly laugh or just a chuckle--every sound stitched itself into him, gave him something he couldn't quite put into words.
The thought of crashing at Aunt Amy's place made Adam's stomach knot up. Sure, it was only a couple of days before the big move, but the idea of sitting still, making small talk, and tiptoeing around her space? No thanks. He had this itch, this restless need to dive into his new turf, get a feel for the place before life got hectic.
He pictured a cheap motel room--nothing fancy, just a bed and a bit of breathing room. From there, he could roam. Scope out hole-in-the-wall diners, find a comedy club or two, maybe even kick around a soccer ball with the locals. Just a couple of days to himself, a little adventure to soften the edges of the change ahead.
But then there was Aunt Amy. He could barely remember what she looked like. A blur, really--mom's ypunger sister who showed up now and then at holidays, always looking distracted, like she was about to be late for something. And their relationship? Let's just say it wasn't built to last through houseguests.
Still, his mom had insisted. "She's family, Adam. She'll love having you. And it's just a few days!"
Yeah, just a few days. He couldn't shake the feeling it'd be awkward as hell, tiptoeing around her world like a stranger in a house that was supposed to feel like home.
Amy wasn't exactly jumping for joy at the news of Adam's visit. The memory of him as a nonstop ball of energy -- always moving, always talking--made her wince. She could practically hear the echo of his sneakers squeaking against her floors, feel the chaos he'd drag in like a whirlwind.
The truth was, she didn't want company. Not now. Not ever, really. The thought of slapping on a fake smile, playing the part of the cool aunt, made her stomach turn. Who had the energy for that?
What she wanted--no, needed--was quiet. Just her, the hum of her empty apartment, and the dull comfort of her own brooding thoughts. She'd gotten used to the stillness, even liked it most days. But now? Now she'd have Adam crashing into it, all noise and motion, turning her carefully built solitude into a bad memory she couldn't escape.
Adam rolled up to the condo with a couple of bags slung over his shoulders and a grin so bright it was borderline obnoxious. Amy met him at the door with a tight-lipped smile, skipping the hugs, skipping the fuss. "Guest room's down the hall," she said, already turning on her heel.
The room wasn't half bad, though. Fluffy pillows, a comforter thick enough to smother a grown man--it was clear she'd tried, even if she didn't say much. Adam dropped his stuff, gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror, and wandered into the kitchen.
Amy was there, leaning against the counter, looking like she was trying to figure out how long this visit might drag. They went through the motions -- "How was the drive?"; "Need anything?" -- the kind of chatter that fills the gaps but doesn't stick. She offered him a sandwich and a cold drink, and he took both, more out of politeness than hunger.
As the sun started to dip, Amy threw out the idea of watching a movie later. The vibe was civil, sure, but the warmth you'd expect from family? Yeah, not so much.
At some point, Amy grabbed a bottle of wine, the kind with a label fancy enough to suggest she didn't crack these open too often. She poured herself a glass and glanced at Adam. "Want some?"
He shrugged, casual. "I'm more of a beer guy, honestly."
That landed like a dud. Amy's face twitched--barely--but Adam caught it. She opened the fridge, shuffled a few things around, and shut it with a sigh. No beer. Of course not. She settled back into her spot at the counter, sipping her wine and eyeing him like she was already counting down the days.
Trapped in Aunt Amy's condo, the silence was deafening, broken only by the distant symphony of car horns. Three endless days loomed ahead, a sentence neither of them was eager to serve. The atmosphere inside was as dreary as the shitty weather outside, a suffocating stillness settling between them like an unwelcome guest. It was like being shackled to a complete stranger; a forced camaraderie they would've paid good money to escape.
Adam glanced at Amy, who was nursing her wine like it was a lifeline. "So, uh... any good movies you've seen lately?"
Amy's eyes flickered to him, a hint of surprise in her expression. "Not really. Been too busy with work to catch anything new."
"Yeah, I feel that. School's been kicking my ass lately." Adam leaned back, stretching his legs. "But hey, at least we've got three days to catch up on some flicks, right?"
Amy's lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. "I suppose so. As long as you don't hog the remote."
Adam grinned, the tension easing a notch. "No promises, but I'll try to be a gracious guest."
And just like that, a tiny spark of connection ignited, a flicker of warmth in the chilly air between them. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Two lost souls, finding a shred of common ground in the midst of the awkwardness, one hesitant step at a time.
Amy was draped across the couch, feet kicked up on the ottoman, wearing a look that screamed "just canceled my Netflix subscription." Adam, ever the aspiring comedian, pulled out all the stops to lift her spirits. He fired off his best jokes, recounted his most ridiculous misadventures, but all he got for his efforts was a half-assed sip of wine and a face that wouldn't crack a smile with a crowbar.
Just as he was about to throw in the towel, a memory hit him like a bolt from the blue. Aunt Amy was ticklish as hell. Before he could think better of it, he dropped to his knees in front of the ottoman and grabbed one of her bare feet. Fingers locked around her ankle; he started scribbling his fingers all over her sole like a mad pianist.
