You have that energy. Patient, observant, creative. And what about you? Timothy asked. You mentioned graphic design. Moon nodded. Freelance. I work from home, which has been good since the amputation. I had to completely relearn my workflow. I used to pace around my apartment while brainstorming, sketch, standing up at an easel. Now I do most of my work sitting using a tablet. It took months to adapt, but I got there. That’s incredibly resilient. I didn’t have much choice, Moon said quietly.
It was adapt or give up. and I had already lost everything else. I wasn’t going to lose my career, too. They discovered more shared interests as the afternoon wore on. They both loved hiking, though Moon hadn’t been on a trail since the accident. They both preferred indie films to blockbusters. They both thought the smell of Portland after rain was the best smell in the world. They both loved bookstores with creaky floors and coffee shops with mismatched furniture.
When evening came and they finally parted ways in the parking lot, they exchanged phone numbers. Thank you for today,” Moon said, her eyes still a bit puffy, but genuinely happy for the first time. I, you and Stara turned what I thought would be the loneliest, most painful birthday of my life into something beautiful. I’ll never forget this. Same place next Saturday?” Timothy asked, surprising himself with how much he hoped she’d say yes. Moon’s face lit up. I would absolutely love that.
The texts started that night. Moon, thank you again for today. I can’t stop thinking about how kind you both were to a complete stranger. You’re not a stranger anymore. Timothy said, “You’re our friend, and friends don’t thank friends for birthday cake. It’s in the friendship handbook, page 47.” I’ll have to read that handbook more carefully. Timothy, it’s a thrilling read. Right up there with assembly instructions and tax forms. The following Saturday, Moon showed up at the corner bean wearing a nervous smile.
But the moment Stara saw her, she squealled with delight and ran over for a hug. And just like that, it felt like Moon had always been part of their Saturday tradition. The weeks turned into months. Moon started joining them for other things, too. Trips to Powell City of Books, where they’d get lost in different sections and text each other ridiculous book titles they found. Movie nights at Timothy’s apartment after Stara went to bed, where they’d argue good-naturedly about plot holes and character motivations.
Starla’s school art show where Moon stood next to Timothy and took photos like a proud aunt. Moon taught Stara how to draw cartoon characters sitting at Timothy’s kitchen table with colored pencils spread everywhere. Timothy and Moon would text late into the night about everything and nothing. Funny memes, random observations about their days, deep conversations about grief and hope and rebuilding. Two months after they met, Moon made a decision. I’m moving to Portland,” she told Timothy. One evening, they were sitting on his couch after Stara had gone to bed, watching a documentary neither of them was really paying attention to.
Timothy’s heart did a little flip. Really? My aunt is supportive. She knows I need to rebuild my life, and living away from the one place that feels like home, it doesn’t make sense. I’ve been looking at apartments in the neighborhood. There’s a studio available three blocks from here. That’s amazing, Timothy said, trying to keep his voice casual even though his heart was racing. I can help you move. You don’t have to. I want to. When moving day came, Timothy recruited a few of his teacher friends.
They carried boxes up three flights of stairs, assembled furniture, hung pictures. Moon ordered pizza for everyone, and by the end of the day, her studio apartment felt like home. 3 months into their friendship, Moon was fully integrated into their lives. She knew that Stara hated broccoli but loved Brussels sprouts. She knew that Timothy graded papers better with instrumental jazz playing in the background. She knew their coffee orders by heart. She’d become the person Timothy texted first when something funny happened.
The person whose opinion he valued, the person whose laugh made his entire day better. And one afternoon in June, sitting in a coffee shop, not the corner bean, somewhere new, Timothy realized his feelings had shifted from platonic to something deeper. Moon was laughing at something ridiculous that had happened at her graphic design client meeting. Her head thrown back, the afternoon light catching her hair just right, and Timothy’s heart did a little flip. He was falling in love with her.
Maybe had been for a while, but he didn’t say anything. Moon had been through so much trauma. She was 9 years younger than him. He had a daughter to think about. What if he misread the signals and scared her away? What if pursuing something romantic ruined the friendship they’d built? So, he kept quiet, treasuring what they had, while silently wishing for more. 4 months into their friendship, everything changed. It was a Tuesday evening in early August. Timothy was grading student artwork at his kitchen table while Stara colored nearby.
