Chapter 2: The Reply
597 Words
Celeste woke with her phone still in her hand.
For a split second, she couldn’t remember what she’d done—just the heaviness in her chest and the faint electric ache behind her eyes. Then the screen lit up, and her breath caught.
Jude Callahan: "Didn’t expect to hear from you, Red."
Her stomach twisted.
He remembered the nickname. The one he used to throw out at every family barbecue with a wink, long before things got complicated. Before she married Marcus. Before Leo shipped off and disappeared from their lives.
Celeste stared at the message for a long time. Her thumb hovered, withdrew. She tossed the phone on the bed and went straight to the shower.
Under the hot water, she closed her eyes and tried to quiet the voice in her head.
You don’t want this. You just want to feel something. Anything.
But that was the thing. She hadn’t felt anything in so long, not even herself.
By the time she dressed and made it to the gallery, it was already after nine. The front windows shimmered in the morning light, her photography installation casting abstract shadows against the floor. Images of strangers caught mid-movement: dancers, lovers, wanderers. She used to think photos were about freezing time. Now she wondered if she’d used the lens to hide from it.
“Morning,” her assistant, Rae, called from behind the reception desk. “Coffee’s on your desk. And yes, I added cinnamon.”
“You’re an angel.”
“I know.”
Rae was twenty-two and fearless in a way Celeste had forgotten how to be. She wore ripped jeans and combat boots with the confidence of someone who’d never apologised for taking up space.
Celeste slipped into her office, closed the door, and sank into the chair. She opened her phone again.
One more message.
Jude Callahan: “You okay?”
Three words. Nothing dramatic. Nothing suggestive. But they unravelled something small inside her.
Celeste Hartwell: “Not really.”
She hit send before she could change her mind.
The day passed in a blur of meetings, lighting checks, and final touches for the opening next week. She smiled when needed. Nodded through critiques. But inside, she was vibrating.
Her phone didn’t buzz again until after dusk.
Jude Callahan: “You want to talk about it?”
Celeste: “Talk? You?”
Jude: “I’ve evolved. I own two houseplants and listen to podcasts now.”
She almost laughed.
Almost.
Celeste: “Marriage is a mess. Marcus wants an open relationship.”
No reply right away.
For ten minutes, twenty, she wondered if she’d said too much.
Then
Jude: “Asshole.”
Two words. A single judgment. But it made her feel seen in a way Marcus hadn’t in months.
Celeste: “Yeah.”
Jude: “You want distraction or honesty?”
That gave her pause. Distraction was easier. Honesty was dangerous.
Celeste: “Maybe both.”
Jude: “Then come out. Just for a drink. Talk. I’ll behave. Probably.”
She stared at the message. Her heart thumped once, deep and loud.
She didn’t reply right away. She stared at the gallery walls, at her name printed on the exhibition cards. She remembered the wedding photo in the trash. The man who used to be her world. The silence he’d left her in.
And Jude—Jude was chaos, yes. But he was alive. Untamed. Unapologetic. She used to think of him as a warning. Now she wondered if he might be the answer.
She typed slowly.
Celeste: “When and where?”
- Writer
