Chapter 34: The Melissa Future Talk
The Thai food's getting cold on my coffee table.
Melissa's been quiet since arriving. Not upset-quiet. Thinking-quiet. The kind where you're rehearsing sentences in your head before saying them aloud.
I wait. Learned that from her—sometimes silence is support.
"I got offered a job," she finally says.
"That's great! Where?"
"Seattle. Middle school. Teaching art and creative writing." She picks at her pad thai without eating. "It's... it's exactly what I've been working toward. Benefits, good kids, supportive administration. Dream position."
The excitement in her voice is real. So is the hesitation.
"When do they need an answer?"
"Two weeks. I'd start January fifteenth."
January. Three months away.
The math does itself: Stuart's opening Burbank location March. Can't leave LA. Two shops require presence, management, oversight. Investment portfolio needs monitoring. CBS consulting gigs. Leonard's blog posts. The gang's Wednesday nights.
Everything I'm building is here.
"That's—" I set down my fork. "Melissa, that's incredible. You should take it."
"We haven't talked about—about us. About what this means."
"What do you want it to mean?"
She finally looks at me. "I want you to come with me."
The words hang between us like physical objects.
"I can't. The shops—"
"I know. I know you can't." She's not crying, but close. "I knew before I asked. But I had to ask anyway."
"Long distance?"
"For how long? You're opening a second location. I'd be building a teaching career. We'd see each other maybe once a month?" She shakes her head. "That's not a relationship. That's nostalgia with plane tickets."
She's right. I've seen the future—not this specific relationship, but the patterns. Long distance fails when both people have growing ambitions pulling them opposite directions. Love isn't enough against geographical incompatibility.
The TV flickers with some sitcom neither of us is watching. Outside, someone's car alarm chirps off.
"So we break up," I say.
"Eventually. Yeah."
"Not tonight?"
"Not tonight." She moves closer on the couch. "I don't leave until January. We've got time."
"To what? Extend the inevitable?"
"To appreciate what we had. End it right." Her hand finds mine. "Stuart, you—you taught me that confident, successful men can also be kind. That's not nothing. I'm leaving better than I came."
"You taught me I deserve good relationships. That success isn't just money."
"Look at us. Being mature adults."
"It's disgusting."
She laughs, but tears start anyway. I pull her close. She fits against me like always, except now there's an expiration date.
We finish the Thai food because wasting it seems wrong. Watch the sitcom without seeing it. Eventually migrate to the bed not for sex but just to hold each other.
"Tell me about Seattle," I say in the dark.
She describes the school—old building with good bones, art room with natural light, students who actually want to be there. Her voice warms talking about it.
"Tell me about Burbank."
I describe the location, the vision, how it'll be different from the Pasadena shop. Industry focus. Networking space. Maybe consulting rooms for entertainment people needing authentic feedback.
"You're building an empire."
"Trying to."
"You'll succeed. You always do."
There's no bitterness in it. Just statement of fact.
"This sucks," she says eventually.
"Yeah."
"Right person, wrong timing."
"Story of my fucking life."
She turns to face me. "At least we're doing this like adults. No drama. No blame. Just—life going different directions."
"I don't want to be an adult right now. Want to be twenty and stupid and able to just follow you without consequences."
"You'd hate Seattle after a month. No entertainment industry. Rainy all winter. Your shops would fail without you."
"Still."
"Still," she agrees.
We lie there in comfortable silence. Not solving anything. Just being present while we can.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Probably Leonard asking about Thursday's inventory delivery. Or Sheldon with some crisis requiring immediate mathematical intervention.
I ignore it.
"Three months," Melissa says.
"Three months."
"Let's make them good. Not sad. Just—enjoying what's left."
"Deal."
She kisses me. Soft, familiar, tinged with future loss. But also present happiness. Both things true simultaneously.
When she falls asleep, I lie awake thinking about the powers.
The memory showed me stock prices, product launches, cultural trends. Gave me perfect information about markets and movements.
Never warned me about this.
Couldn't have. Personal relationships aren't in the database. Melissa's career opportunity existed outside the timeline I absorbed. Real life, with variables I can't predict.
The powers made me successful. But success doesn't mean everything works out.
Sometimes you get the girl.
Sometimes the girl gets her dream job in Seattle.
And sometimes love isn't enough against three thousand miles and incompatible life trajectories.
I pull her closer. She murmurs in sleep, settles against me.
Three months.
Make them count.
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