The last flush of sunset behind the Sleeping Giant was crimson and gold and probably gorgeous—but Adam didn’t have time to appreciate it. He took the steps two at a time, unlocked the door to his apartment, and dumped his briefcase inside. Then he hit Maddie’s number on his phone.

“Hey. I’m sorry I’m calling you late.” Almost an hour late, to be precise.

It had been an endless day: he’d had a morning meeting in Billings, a lunch with some donors in Bozeman, and an early dinner with labor leaders in Butte. He’d driven nine hours, all told, and had talked what felt like an equivalent amount of time. But the entire drive home, all he’d thought was he was going to be late to call her.

“You should be.” She didn’t sound mad, just soft and warm. The same way she’d felt in his arms.

Just like that, his body relaxed. He was parched from the drive and needed a shower and a nap, but three words from her, and his muscles loosened.

“Were you asleep?”

“It’s not even eight yet.” She scoffed. “This is way early.”

But she’d been up since before dawn, had worked a full day, and then had planned to do some canvassing. She might talk a big game, but the life of a candidate was as exhausting as that of a campaign consultant.

He should keep his distance and focus any calls they might have on her campaign. He shouldn’t phone her almost every night. He definitely shouldn’t text her little jokes and check-ins, let alone replay their kiss, and all the things he wished had happened after, in his head. But he had and he would.

He’d said far too much the night they’d kissed. But touching her had emptied his mind. It had been all oh thank god and finally and you smell amazing and mine and please and more. Only his promise to Chad had kept him from falling into bed with her.

Montana left him confused. That was the only explanation.

“How did the canvassing go?” That was the ostensible point of this conversation, so he ought to ask. It maintained the veneer of professionalism.

“Fine. The public defender thing is still a problem for some people.”

“But it’s a plus for others.”

“Maybe, but those people—let’s face it, the two hundred genuine liberals here—would’ve voted for anyone with a D after her name.”

“In exchange, they’re going to get an amazing state senator.”

She snorted. “Some of them are surprisingly ungrateful. One woman told me she doubted my ‘Montana values.’”

“She thinks you’re insufficiently hardy and independent?”

“I doubt that’s it.” Maddie paused for a long time. “Does it feel like the state has changed?”

“Since when?”

“When we were kids, Montana Republicans didn’t sound like national Republicans. Now, I feel like they’ve lost their libertarian edge. Today, they’re just garden variety conservatives.”

“Everyone listens to the same talk radio and watches the same news shows now.” And hence they all spouted the same talking points. They were like Stepford Voters.

“I feel like I stayed in the same place and the ground shifted under my feet.”

He wanted to ask why she’d stayed then, but before he could, something rustled over the line—maybe her sheets. “You’re in bed?”

“Sure, but I’m writing a memo. You aren’t keeping me up.”

But she was keeping him up: all the questions he had, all the little ways she crept into his daydreams.

He cleared his throat. Memo. Work. That was safe. “Were you able to stay the summary judgement?” She’d told him about it the night before.

“Babe, you know I was.”

She was so piqued, he had to laugh.

Then he went into the kitchen to get a drink. “I’m not doubting your legal prowess or anything.”

“You were, actually, but you’re forgiven.” She paused for a second. “Do you miss it?”

He chugged half a glass of water. “You forget I wasn’t a litigator.”

Sitting in his inbox right now were three separate emails from his firm asking if he had a precise return date and inquiring where the files were for that one case and soliciting a contribution for the retirement present of a paralegal he’d worked with. He’d sent some money, but he’d ignored the rest.

In LA, he’d gone through the motions, working hard but never being truly engaged. Here, his work absorbed everything, and Maddie got the crumbs. The little bits that he wanted to process, to laugh about, to pick apart, at the end of the day. Those were hers.

“You could still miss it,” she said. “Some people love business law and contracts.”

“I…” He finished drinking his water and began stripping his shirt off. “Let me ask you this first: why didn’t you leave?” If he was going to give something up, she had to do the same in return. That was simple fairness.

“Hmm.” For a long minute, he wasn’t certain she was going to answer, but finally she said, “I got a big scholarship to go to Bozeman.”

“Sure, but I’d guess you got money other places too.” He didn’t know what kind of student she’d been, but she’d been an amazing debater and was clearly smart. In his experience, schools out of state were happy to poach Montanans for their geographic diversity numbers.

“The money went further here. Then moving to Missoula for law school seemed like change enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“For me, doofus. It’s not like I haven’t gotten out. I’ve traveled.” That was a bit defensive. “I’m not saying this is the best place ever, but it’s the best place for me.”

“How do you know?” Everything was riding on the question. Had he been really dissatisfied with his life in California? Could he be happy here? He didn’t know how to sort through it. How did you get to certain?

“Knowing isn’t a thing you feel once. It grows. At first you just…suspect. That goes on for a while. And you don’t leave, and you’re content. Then one day you look back, and you know. I know I’m happy here now.”

He went back through his apartment and opened one of the front windows. The smallest amount of light was still in the sky, and the pitch-black edge of the mountain was etched against the blue. The early September day had been hot. Humid, even. But as soon as the sun had dropped, the air went cold. It wasn’t quite autumn, but the crispness felt like it came from the future.

He leaned against the sill and let the coolness wash over him. “It sounds easy when you say it like that.”

“I’m not certain what we’re talking about.”

“You asked if I miss it.” LA, presumably. Being a lawyer.

He should tell her. He really should tell her everything: his creeping discontent, his explosion, and his fear. But Maddie was happy in Montana and in Fallow, and apparently, she had always been so. She wasn’t going to understand, and she was going to think he was an asshole.

He’d convinced her somehow that he was a good guy. Chivalrous. An idealist. If she knew the truth, all of that would go away.

If at the end of the election he decided to stay, he didn’t want her to look at him differently. He wanted her to always believe in him as much as she did now when she was willing to tell him how to be happy—if only he were smart enough to listen.

“I don’t miss it,” he said. “But I got restless once, and maybe I will again.” Both of those things were totally true, and for now, they would have to be enough.

“I get restless sometimes,” she said.

“Really? What do you do then?”

“Well, in case you hadn’t heard, I’m running for the legislature.”

“What I hear is that you’re amazing.”

“Total lies.”

He winced but shook it off.