Harris stares at Ablaze's text in a stupor.

That's the kind of text they sent as kids during the early brave years of messaging, before the mighty predictive texts algorithms took over. This isn't at all like Ablaze. Or she's in a terrible rush and really can't talk. He can imagine why—and doesn't want to—and then he does.

Oliver must hover over her, demanding, possessive, as befit a fresh fiancé. Oliver, with his blonde locks, smarmy manner and posh accent. He's probably--

Stop it. Harris slouches over the phone. Only his thumbs move for the next fifteen minutes. Then twenty. Half-an-hour. 

His day off is going to waste. His back grows numb, his neck aches from crouching. And he's frozen in this uncomfortable position until he checks all the sites he's avoided since he's left the ballroom. Instagram, Telegram, YouTube, Snapchat, TikTok, everywhere Ablaze trods digitally.

Her footprints disappear after the flurry of pictures from the gala with the close ups of that tacky ring. Even the recording of her speech to the friends of the Milwaukee Fire Department hasn't been uploaded yet. However, her feed is overflowing in thousands of congratulatory messages. 

There it is, his answer. The world doesn't suspect Oliver of being a villain. It's not Oliver, it's him being paranoid. If Dad's minority exists, it's truly tiny. Honestly, Sarkisian Senior probably invented it as a conversation starter. Or to make him rally. Like going mad alone is any worse than going mad together with random strangers on the Internet.

One thing is clear--he can't talk to her in this state or he'll just rave like a lunatic. So, he can't hear her voice. Can't even make her phone buzz with an incoming text. All these casual pleasures belong to Oliver now. 

And after his night with Desiree, Harris has no call to clench his fists till his nails hurt even through the callouses when he thinks of it.

Yet, no matter what Ablaze's doing with Oliver, no matter how he's spent the night of her engagement, she needs to know what Lonita found out. What she does with the info is her business, but she needs to know!

He sits on his bed staring at the open email app. What? Nothing to say? Him? Daaaamn. A shuddering sigh shakes his shoulders. Fine, he'll write something. Something is better than nothing.

'Here's something interesting, Agatha.'

Yeah, that's better than nothing. He attaches the screenshots from Lonita to it. He can't really mention the source, in case Oliver is reading her emails. Like this, it would sound like he's a desperate loser collecting gossip. Safer for her, but dammit! Why does he always have to wear a loser's mantle? Why can't Oliver try it on for once?

He pounds the bed with his fist, then turns off silent mode and places the phone on the bed stand. Maybe she'll call. Maybe he can explain. Maybe... nothing. He should be out like a light after all this, but his sleep is fitful. And it's not like he has anything to look forward to in the morning... but the crappy night goes on and on... until the phone's ring wakes him up.

He claws it, terrified that the caller would drop the call before he picks up. His tongue barely forms the name, it's so thick from sleep. "Agatha? Ablaze?"

"Not yet," his Dad's chirpy voice replies. "But you have a plane to catch."

Harris rubs his face so hard, he nearly peels the skin off his cheek, massages it over his teeth. Why did he think it was from her when the screen says dad in green letters. Also, the ring tone was his dad's. He never set a ringtone for Ablaze.

Jesus! He's acting like he's drunk. And the next words he blurts out only make it more like it. "Plane... what f— what plane?"

He unglues his eyelids as much as he can and looks wildly around the room. It's after dawn, but the light is still weak beyond the window. It's his second drowsy morning in a row. What he needs is a cup of coffee.

"Come down, I've made coffee," his Dad says.

"Bless your soul, Sir."

Downstairs, Sarkisian Senior inserts the hot mug into his hands. "You're going to Singapore."

"Singa-- What?!" He stares into his mug like it's a bottomless well then lifts his eyes in bewilderment. "How?"

There's not a wink of sleep in his dad's eyes and he's wearing the same plaid shirt as yesterday. He's also as proud as a peacock.

"You see, Lonita and I, we were trying out a small podcast lately... a cooking and cozy mysteries thing. Ablaze, bless her soul, linked it—don't ask, I don't know how and why she's found it--drink your coffee!"

Years of habit take over and Harris brings the mug to his lips. The ceramic lip is hot, so he doesn't slurp the life-giving liquid. And he can tell his dad why Ablaze looked Edik Sarkisian up... something even hotter than coffee burns in his chest.

"Stop nursing it, for Christ's sake! Drink! You look so out of it, I don't know if you hear what I'm saying."

A habit of many years takes over: don't argue with Dad. Never argue with Dad.

Coffee scalds his tongue on the way down--happy now, Dad?--but he only winces. If it brings the conversation closer to Singapore, he'll take the burn.

"So, you have a podcast. With Lonita, for whatever reason—"

"We both love mysteries and cooking. See, I cook and review recipes from the books, while she discusses the mystery from the police officer's perspective," his Dad explains quickly. "It's perfect!"

Okay, not the worst setup out there. At least they're pros at what they're doing. A yawn stretches Harris' jaws apart. "Nice... The kind of thing your counselor suggested."

"Yes, yes. I'm following the medical advice to the T."

Things are clicking together faster. "So, you're getting subscribers now?"

"Ah... some. But a lot of them are also Ablaze's fans. You know how it is..." Sarkisian Senior waves a hand through the air, as if the Internet's whims were an orchestra. "One post leads to another, and lo and behold! You're crowdfunded, Harris."

Drowsiness flees him in an instant. He jolts awake. "What?!"

"Oh, look at you, tossing your head like a colt!"

"Dad, why would you go and beg?! You didn't even ask for money from Gran when you were buying this house!" And mom had so much to say about it, that he remembers it twenty years down the road.

His Dad groans. "For once, Harris, for once! Shut the hell up, accept the gift and say 'thank you'!"

Slight, with his sloping shoulders and a balding spot, Edik Sarkisian hasn't intimidated Harris since he was fifteen or so. Certainly, not since he's been chained to a wheel-chair.

Yet, at this moment, clenching his fists, black fire is back in the near-sighted eyes. The hooked nose dips, strangely hawkish. Dad's back snaps straight, like he's going to jump out of this chair and hit him. Involuntarily, Harris's also clenching his fists.

Clenching his fists! Why is he clenching his fists? Like what does he think he's going to do with his fists? He slams his empty coffee mug on the counter, grabs the corner and bends over its plastic surface. Exhale. Exhale... He pants, but that's not what deflates him.

Sarkisian Senior pulls a shaking hand across his forehead and says, "Yes, I didn't. Don't be like me, Harris. Don't be so much like me..." After his outburst, the words sound particularly quiet.

That's what deflates Harris. He staggers back from the counter. What the Hell is wrong with him? The distance between him and Ablaze has suddenly shrunk to thirty hours as the plane flies--through the kindness of strangers, yes. Unlike him, she's loved by many, so a reflection of that love fell on him too. What's really so awful? Why was he yelling like a moron? Blood that rushed into his head in an instant, slowly drains from his cheeks. His heart pumps it elsewhere, leisurely at first. Then it speeds up until it struggles to even stay inside the ribcage.

The distance between them has shrunk! He'll see Ablaze the day after tomorrow. He'll see her again. Soon!

"You alright?" his Dad asks.

Harris nods wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak yet. How's that in place of a 'thank you'? It sucks. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard, tears spurt between his eyelids.

"Thank you. When... ah... when is the flight?"

"Well... Sarkisian Senior lifts up his phone, "you need to put your ass in gear."

Harris recognizes the four-digit flight number and twitches. It's the same one Ablaze took while he made smiles with Desiree. Desiree!

Also, it's another fifty bucks on a taxi to make it to the airport on time. Fifty bucks!

And how/where is he going to bunk in Singapore on the remaining three hundred and twenty-four bucks on his checking account, plus overdraft for a week--

A week, he's yet to ask for at work--

Whatever. He'll figure it out once he's there. He's going to Singapore. He'll see her again.

***

In the queue for security check, in the press of people that already hints that he ain't in Milwaukee any more, Harris plucks his phone. He's yet to ask for a week away from work.

"Lt. Jung? Sir? I'm putting in a request for a week off. Starting today."

"Today?" Jung's voice is more than unrattled but not yet pissed. "Is there an emergency?"

He hesitates for a fraction of a moment too long. Oh, that's not going to add authenticity to his cover story. So, he doesn't lie.

"Sir, you may say so. It's a personal matter. And, Sir?" Before Jung can react to the rising intonation, he says, "I deeply appreciate your understanding. Providing, I haven't taken a personal day in four years and now need the consideration, I didn't really know what to expect... but you, Sir... it's so kind of you. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Jung sounds like he's furrowing his brows.

Harris hangs up and throws his head back, letting a relieved laughter escape. The couple next to him exchange embarrassed smiles until it's their turn to unload the carry-ons, belts and shoes on the conveyor belt.

For his next phone call, he waits until he is at the waiting area by the gates. He seeks out two armchairs twined airport style, split by a handle bar, so people don't turn them into a couch. Its leather is black, stiff, spider-webbed by cracks in the corners. But nobody is within the earshot.

He jams himself all the way into the chair, slouches over his bag and shields his head and phone with his hand too. Privacy may be an illusion, but a stitch releases in his neck.

"Hi Desiree," he tells the voice-mail, because nobody picks up the calls any more. "I didn't want to text with it. People are funny with texts. I'm... I'll be away for a week. Also, I wanted to say..."

He inhales deeply, then rants it all out on an exhale. "Desiree, it's not you. It's me. It's such a stupid thing to say. Trivial, I guess. But I actually think neither you, nor I can do with what we had last night. I'm going to Singapore. Maybe I'm an idiot for not lying about it, but you need more from a guy. You're too smart and pretty not to. I believe it's waiting in the wings, something big. It's still waiting for us. And it's not right to pass it up, because--"

Because we need it.

"Harris," Desiree calls into his ear.

He startles. He was too wrapped up in his small space, trying to explain why he's calling her from an airport, to notice when she's picked up the call.

"Harris, Harris, Harris..." Desire repeats in a sing-song tone. "What is it with men? You can never hold it in. Why did you have to call me all hot and bothered? You're frenzied, fine. Go to Singapore, insist that you know how to run her life better than she does... by all means! But I already told you--no man ever again will direct my relationships. I'm blocking your number in case you're stupid enough to call after you crush."

"Wait-- What? You think--"

She speaks over him. He can hear her rolling her eyes. It's so evident in her voice, he'd laugh if he weren't so taken aback.

"When, when will men finally clue in that the world isn't there to coddle them?" With a disgusted sigh Desiree hangs up.

Harris stares at the 'call has ended' on the screen as if the pressure of his gaze could undo the unfavorable outcome.

Desiree has blocked him, he doesn't doubt it for a second. It stings, but it's peanuts in the grand scheme of things. If he goes before Ablaze armed with a moronic grin and maniacal conviction—no, that wouldn't do. She'll have a knee-jerk reaction, just like Desiree, or worse.

He drops his scrunched face into his palms. What the Hell is he doing? He can't fly to Singapore like this!