Flight Risk

You know that old saying, Be careful what you wish for?

I used to think that was just something people said when they ran out of smarter things to say.

But twenty minutes ago, I walked into my editor’s office and walked out with a new job I didn’t ask for. And now? I’m starting to think whoever said that might’ve been psychic.

Or possibly related to Harry Potter.

I might have said I wanted a more “thrilling” assignment. Out loud. In the breakroom. Last week.

Now I’m being transferred.

I walk back to my desk in a daze, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder than usual. Somewhere between the “We’d love to see what you can do in lifestyle” and “You don’t have to say yes right now,” my brain short-circuited.

Cue the ghost of my mother on my shoulder:

“What if you end up reporting in the middle of a war zone? You could get killed!”

She’s always had a flair for drama. But right now, this feels like a kind of war. At least to my nervous system.

Mom used to teach grade school, now sells vintage chairs online, and thinks covering a music festival counts as “dangerous territory.” She never quite understood my leap from Speech Comm grad to news writer. I barely understood it either.

It all started after I read a newspaper column about “saying yes to risk.” I took it personally. Quit my job at a daycare, dusted off my high school journalism skills, and applied at The Virginia Sentinel like I knew what I was doing.

Honestly? It’s worked out okay.

Two years in, I finally feel like I belong. I cover community stories. Local stuff. Safe stuff. Nothing unpredictable, which is exactly how I like it.

So why is this change bothering me so much?

“—so freaked out?” Jessie Nichols, my only real friend in the office, looks at me like I just told her I joined a cult.

I blink at her. “What?”

She groans. “That’s what I thought. You didn’t hear a word I said.”

I drop into my chair and let out a sigh that could qualify as dramatic in a high school play. “I’m being transferred.”

Jessie raises an eyebrow. “To the lifestyle section. So… why is your eye twitching?”

I tap my temple. “Because my brain doesn’t function without a fixed schedule and uncomfortable office chairs. This is chaos. This is the opposite of control.”

She leans back, arms folded. “You—Joey ‘I pack my lunch the night before’ Daniels—are upset about getting a job where you go to cool events, work flexible hours, and sometimes get paid to write about avocado toast and Italian shoes?”

“I don’t even like avocado,” I mumble.

She squints. “You love avocado. You also love free samples, boutique hotel bathrooms, and stalking travel blogs like it’s your religion. This is your dream job. You’re just scared.”

She’s not wrong. I am scared.

Scared that I’ll crash and burn. Scared they’ll realize I’m a fraud.

But mostly, I’m scared that deep down—I want this.

“This is a huge change,” I admit. “What if my weird writing style doesn’t fit there? What if I mess it up?”

Jessie squeezes my shoulder. “You won’t. But even if you do, you’ve got options. Tanya didn’t force you to say yes today. Think it over.”

I nod. “Thanks, Jess. I’ll... sleep on it.”

She grins. “That’s the spirit. And hey—if you do say yes, we finally get to hang out more. I’m in lifestyle, remember?”

“You write about new health care devices.” I point out.

She brushes me off like it’s nothing. “Nah, same thing.”

As I shut down my computer and head out into the evening, I realize it’s colder than usual for August. The kind of night that calls for caramel ice cream and a movie. Preferably one involving snow, sarcasm, and no emotional growth required.

I end up at the video store—a tiny, slightly dusty place run by Megan, who gives me a thumbs-up from behind the counter. Translation: new arrivals in the Christmas section. She knows me too well.

Don’t ask me why, but I’ve got a thing for holiday movies. Maybe it’s the predictability. Maybe I like watching people find joy at the end of an hour and forty-five minutes. Or maybe I just like snow.

I head toward the back shelf when I feel a presence beside me.

I glance sideways.

And there he is.

Adam Peyton.

Six feet of quiet charm, messy ash-brown hair, green eyes that seem too perceptive, and the kind of bone structure that makes toothpaste commercials jealous. Also: he smells like shampoo and warm laundry.

We’ve exchanged maybe four words when he moved in across the street eight months ago. “Hi,” “Good,” “Fine,” and “You too.” Then conversations blurred to movie suggestions and rain checks.

Then conversations turned to blurred movie recommendations and rain checks.

A thrilling romantic arc, I know.

I shift slightly to the left, pretending to study the DVD case in my hand.

Home Alone 2. Classic.

“Want to watch that together?”

I freeze.

Did he actually just say that?

I turn, heart flailing, face frozen in what I hope is a smile and not a grimace. “Hey… Adam.”

He steps closer, eyes flicking to the DVD. “Home Alone, huh?”

I nod. “Bit of a Christmas thing.”

Wow. Stellar response.

“You never told me if you watched Wedding Crashers,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Oh. Right. He’d recommended that last week.

“I did,” I say, suddenly breathless. “It was funny. Actually made me laugh out loud. Thank you for that.”

He chuckles. “Glad you liked it.”

I walk to the counter, trying to appear composed. Megan watches us like we’re the stars of her favorite slow-burn romance. I shake my head slightly at her, hoping she won’t start humming Here Comes the Bride.

Adam follows.

I turn just before the door. “Thanks again. For the movie. Not the one I’m holding now. I mean—Wedding Crashers. That one. I’m gonna stop talking.”

He laughs. “You’re fine.”

Then, lightly, his hand brushes my arm.

“Want to walk together?”

I nod before my brain catches up.

As we near my building, he says, “If you want, I could make you a list. Movies you might like.”

“That’d be great.”

“Or,” he adds, “we could watch them together. Christmas movies. Even if it’s August. If you’re okay with that.”

I stop. “You want to watch Christmas movies. With me. In August?”

“Yeah. Why not?” He shrugs. “Maybe throw in a light dinner?”

Yes. YES.

But instead, I panic and default to safety.

“I’ll take a rain check on that.”

He half-smiles. “Rain check number twenty-three. Not that I’m counting.”

I laugh. “It’s only Saturday. You’ve still got tomorrow to throw stones at my window.”

“Challenge accepted.”

We part ways with a smile and a wave.

Back in my apartment, I kick off my shoes and flop onto the bed, holding the DVD like a prize. Then sit up in horror.

I forgot the ice cream.

I raid the fridge, but all I find is a sad bowl of frozen peaches.

Not exactly the same.

But maybe a small change wouldn’t hurt.

Just peaches and ice cream.

Right?