talking to Tom

That evening, the apartment smells faintly of garlic and the candle Tom lit after dinner. You’re both sitting at the kitchen table — laptops open, dishes pushed aside — when you finally tell him.

“So… my editor gave me an assignment,” you begin, picking at the edge of your napkin.

Tom looks up, interested. “Already? That’s fast.”

You nod, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. It’s a feature. About dating in your twenties — in Kansas City. They want a first-person kind of series, something that feels real.”

He grins. “That’s perfect for you. You’re good with people.”

You hesitate. “There’s… a catch.”

His smile falters slightly. “A catch?”

“They want me to actually go on dates. From one of those apps — Love Match or something. Strictly professional. It’s about the stories, not the romance.”

For a moment, he just stares, the words hanging between you. Then he laughs, like it has to be a joke. “Wait — you’re serious?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Mike says it’s the kind of project that could get me noticed. It’s long-form. Big readership. I’d be upfront about being married, if they want that. It’s not… it’s not like I’d be dating, dating.”

Tom leans back, exhaling slowly. “So you’d meet random guys from an app. For work.”

“I’d be careful. It’s interviews, basically.”

“Interviews where they think it’s a date.”

His voice isn’t angry — just tired. You can hear the strain of all the newness pressing in: the move, the boxes still unpacked, the future you both said yes to without knowing what it would look like.

You reach for his hand, and after a pause, he lets you take it.

“I want to be good at this,” you say softly. “I want them to trust me with real stories.”

He studies your face, searching for something, then sighs. “I know you do. Just… promise me you’ll draw a line somewhere, okay? That you’ll remember who you come home to.”

You nod, though your chest feels tight.

Later, when he’s asleep beside you, you stare at the ceiling, thinking about how ambition always sounds simple until it isn’t.

Morning drips into the apartment slowly, the kind of quiet light that makes everything feel more fragile than it should. Tom’s already gone — an early shift at the clinic — leaving behind the faint smell of his coffee and the dent in the pillow where his head was. You stand by the window, mug in hand, watching the street come alive: delivery trucks, a woman jogging with her dog, a boy balancing a paper bag of breakfast sandwiches. Kansas City feels both smaller and bigger than you imagined — a place that hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet.

You think about what Mike said yesterday, about the kind of story that could make your name. The idea had thrilled you at first, the challenge of it, the danger of being seen. But now, in the thin morning light, it feels heavier. Not wrong, exactly — just complicated.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Tom: Love you. You’ll do great today. Three words, simple and sure, and for a moment you feel both lucky and undeserving.

You trace your thumb over the screen, then set the phone down beside your notebook — the one with Heartland Hearts written across the first page in your neatest handwriting. You flip it open, stare at the blank lines waiting to be filled.

You could still back out. Tell Mike it’s too personal, too strange. You could ask for city council meetings and ribbon cuttings instead.

But then you imagine Ophelia's raised eyebrow, Mike’s half-smile, and the thought of fading quietly into the background of the newsroom makes something twist inside you.

So you take a breath, sit down, and write one sentence:

What does love look like when everyone’s looking for it through a screen?

It’s not much, but it’s a start.