Where we’re at

You take a breath. The water glass is cool under your fingers. Janelle is watching you with those dark, steady eyes, and the vulnerability on her face is so raw it almost hurts to look at.

"Janelle." You say her name like it's an anchor. "I've got a lot I'm trying to figure out right now. About my life. About who I am. And that includes—my sexuality. I'm still sorting through that."

She nods. Slowly. Listening with her whole body.

"I don't think I'll be ready to be in a relationship with anyone anytime soon."

The words come out even. Kind. Final. You watch them land.

Janelle's expression shifts—not dramatically, not a collapse, but something subtle rearranges itself behind her eyes. Her jaw tightens for a fraction of a second. Then she exhales through her nose, a long controlled breath, and nods again.

"Okay," she says. Just that. Okay.

She's not going to argue. She's not going to push. She's actually listening.

"I'm not saying never," you add, because something in you can't leave it that flat. "I'm saying not now. I need to figure out my own stuff first before I can figure out anything with another person. That's not about you—it's about me needing to be solid in myself before I let anyone else in that way."

Janelle picks up her chamomile tea. Takes a sip. Sets it down. Her hands are steady but her thumb traces the rim of the mug in a tight circle.

"I hear you," she says. "And I respect that. I do." She pauses, and when she looks up again there's something fierce in her expression—not anger, but determination. "I'm not going anywhere, Riley. I'll be here. As whatever you need me to be—friend, ride to appointments, person who brings you ginger tea. I can do that."

Her voice catches slightly on the last word. She covers it by reaching for Giovanni's Room and straightening the bookmark.

"I just—" She stops herself. Presses her lips together. Then, quieter: "I wanted you to know where I stood. So you wouldn't wonder why I was being weird. Now you know. And now I know where you stand. And that's enough."

Is it though? Is it really enough for her?

She meets your eyes again and there's a sadness there, but it's tempered by something else—something that looks almost like relief. Like she'd been holding a breath for days and finally let it out.

"Thursday at one-thirty," she says, shifting the conversation with deliberate grace. "I'll be at the estate. We'll get to Ridgewood with time to spare."

"Thank you. For the ride. For—today. All of it."

"Don't thank me for being decent," she says, and there's a ghost of her usual sharpness there—the Janelle who makes jokes at trivia and commandeers closet reorganizations. "That's the bare minimum."

A small silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Not charged, exactly. Just... honest. The kind of silence that exists between two people who've said the real thing and are sitting in the aftermath.

Marisol passes by again, clearing a nearby table, and the clatter of ceramic gives you both permission to breathe. The afternoon light through the window has gone golden, catching dust motes in the air between you.

Janelle closes Giovanni's Room and slides it into her bag. "Ready to head back?" she asks. "Or do you want another minute?"

She's giving you the choice. The space. Exactly what she said she would.