Chapter 12: The Call

Jasmine stood in her cozy apartment, the glow of her laptop illuminating her face as the email remained open, sending a flurry of emotions through her. Her fingers hovered nervously over her phone, her heart racing like a drumbeat in her chest. It wasn’t just a simple message she craved; she longed for the warmth of his presence, the comfort of seeing his face light up with a smile, a sight that could chase away the uncertainty swirling in her mind. She dialed.

Dean answered on the second ring. “Hey, you.”

“I need to tell you something,” Jasmine said, voice trembling with excitement.

“Good or bad?”

“Good. Really good.”

Dean’s tone shifted. “Where are you?”

“Home.”

“I’m coming.”

Twenty minutes later, Dean arrived, breathless from the stairs. Jasmine opened the door, her eyes bright.

She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she handed him her laptop.

Dean read the email slowly, his eyes widening with each line. When he reached the end, he looked up, stunned.

“They want to publish you.”

Jasmine nodded, tears threatening. “Not just the anthology. My poetry. My essays. A full partnership.”

Dean sat down, speechless. Then he laughed—a full, joyful laugh. “Jasmine, this is huge.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I didn’t think it would happen this fast.”

Dean reached for her hand. “It’s not fast. It’s overdue.”

They sat together on the couch, the weight of the moment settling in.

“I used to dream about this,” Jasmine said. “Not just being published—but being seen. Being chosen for my voice, not just my polish.”

Dean nodded. “You’ve always had that voice. The world’s just catching up.”

She looked at him. “You helped me believe in it again. After everything.”

Dean’s expression softened. “You rebuilt me, too. You showed me what it means to earn love, not just receive it.”

Jasmine leaned her head on his shoulder. “This isn’t just my win. It’s ours.”

Dean stood and walked to the kitchen, returning with two mismatched mugs. “We don’t have champagne, but we have tea.”

Jasmine laughed. “Very on-brand.”

They clinked mugs.

“To Evelyn,” Dean said.

“To voice,” Jasmine added.

“To the girl who wrote poems on napkins and turned them into a movement,” Dean said.

Jasmine smiled, eyes glistening. “To the boy who learned to listen.”

They sipped their steaming mugs of tea quietly, the rich aroma weaving gently around them. Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm, golden hues across the room as the future unfolded between them—not as a distant fantasy, but as a tangible promise, full of possibilities and shared dreams waiting to be explored.

We settled close together on the cozy couch, surrounded by the warm glow of the soft lamplight. As we shared our thoughts and dreams, the air buzzed with anticipation about what the future might hold for us. Each word exchanged felt like a step into the unknown, and I could hardly contain my excitement for the adventures that lay ahead.

After about an hour of engaging conversation filled with laughter and reminiscing over old memories, Dean decided it was time to head back home. As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden hue across the street, I accompanied him to my front door. The chill of the evening air was beginning to settle in, and I could hear the distant sounds of leaves rustling in the breeze. We shared a few more light-hearted jokes before I paused at the door, watching him walk down the path, his silhouette fading into the dusk.

I gently closed the door behind him, feeling a mix of emotions swirl within me as I returned to the couch. The familiar creak of the floorboards echoed softly as I sank into the cushions, lost in thought about how dramatically my life had transformed over the past few months. Just as I was beginning to delve deeper into those reflections, the sound of jingling keys broke the silence, pulling me back to reality. My mother was home from her shift at the hospital.

When she stepped through the door, she was radiant despite her long day; in her hands, she cradled a vibrant bouquet of fresh flowers, their sweet scent wafting through the air. Alongside the flowers, she held a charming mug adorned with the words “My favorite little writer” in playful, colorful letters. It was a small yet meaningful gesture, and a warmth spread through me as she flashed her bright smile, instantly brightening the dimly lit room.

As we settled around the table, laughter filled the air, bubbling up like the steam from the pot on the stove. I animatedly recounted the thrilling events of my week—the adrenaline of the adventure still coursing through me. My hands gestured wildly, painting pictures of every moment.

Meanwhile, Mom deftly moved around the kitchen, her apron cinched at the waist, the warm aroma of her homemade garlic bread wafting through the air. She tossed greens into a bowl, their vibrant colors contrasting against the rustic wooden table. The clinking of utensils and the sizzle of vegetables in the pan became a cozy backdrop to our excited chatter, creating an atmosphere steeped in love and familiarity. Each bite of dinner held the warmth of home, blending perfectly with the stories and laughter, making the moment unforgettable.