Reece #2
That word used to feel like something that happened to other people. A label on someone else’s story. A cautionary tale.
Now it’s a word that could be stamped on my forehead in invisible ink.
Rosie clears her throat. “Okay! Great! Love this. Reece, why don’t you go grab another drink while Brett and I—”
I cut in immediately. “Yes. Great. Drink. Love that.”
I slip away so fast I’m pretty sure I break a sound barrier.
At the bar, I order something noncommittal—sparkling water with lime—because I am not brave enough for alcohol and I am not foolish enough to let Rosie make me brave.
I clutch my glass like it’s a shield and stare at the room.
Okay.
That was one interaction.
I survived it.
My skin is still on my body.
My dignity is… bruised but alive.
This is the part where I’m supposed to feel proud of myself, right?
Like, look at me, I spoke to a man with damp hands and didn’t burst into flames.
But instead, my brain slides backward.
Jesse didn’t have a damp handshake.
Jesse had a warm smile that didn’t show all his teeth. Jesse had a calm voice. Jesse had this way of making everything feel easy at first, like dating him was slipping into a routine.
He liked routines.
He liked order.
He liked the version of me that fit neatly into his life.
The first few months with Jesse were… good. Not fireworks, but steady. Comfortable. He’d pick me up sometimes after work. We’d go out to dinner or stay in and watch something. He’d kiss me like he meant it.
Then life just happened.
Not dramatic life. Normal life.
A stressful quarter at work. My parents moving to Georgia. The kind of tired that settles in your bones. The kind of week where you don’t want to be “fun,” you just want to be held.
And that’s when Jesse started treating my feelings like a problem to solve.
If I was quiet, he’d ask what was wrong like he wanted the answer to be quick and fixable. If I cried, he’d freeze. If I needed reassurance, he’d offer logic.
He’d say things like, “You’re overthinking,” like my brain was an inconvenience.
Or, “You’re strong, you don’t need that,” like strength meant I wasn’t allowed to want comfort.
He loved my competence until it came with needs.
And the worst part is, I tried to make myself smaller.
I tried to be easier.
I tried to be the girlfriend who didn’t require anything complicated.
Because I thought that was love.
Which is hilarious, because I’m an accountant. I know what happens when you keep shaving down numbers to make them look better. Eventually reality comes due, and it’s always more expensive.
Jesse didn’t break up with me in a dramatic way. No shouting. No cheating confession. No slam of the door.
He just… stopped showing up.
Texts got shorter. Plans got rescheduled. Phone calls turned into “I’m tired.”
And then one night, in his kitchen, after I’d said something like, “I miss you,” he looked at me like I’d asked him to lift a car.
“I just… don’t know if I can do this,” he’d said.
“This” meaning: me.
My feelings.
My heart.
All the parts that weren’t efficient.
I’d nodded like I understood, because I didn’t want to beg.
I’d walked out like I was fine, because I didn’t want to fall apart in front of him.
I’d slipped into my car and cried so hard I had to pull over, because I couldn’t see through the tears.
Two months later, my life is still here. My job is still here. My routines are still here.
But the easy part of me—the part that used to believe love could be safe—still feels like it’s recovering from a sprain.
I take another sip of sparkling water and make a face.
This drink tastes like disappointment.
I glance around the room again.
People are laughing. Someone is touching someone’s arm. A couple is leaning close at a high-top table like they’re already sharing secrets.
I feel like I’m watching a movie I used to enjoy and now I’m not sure I remember the plot.
Rosie appears beside me like a magician.
“How did it go?” she asks, eyes gleaming.
“I said the words ‘fiscally responsible’ to a human man,” I whisper.
Rosie’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my gosh.”
“I want to crawl under the bar and live there,” I add.
Rosie laughs, delighted. “That’s my girl.”
“That is not a compliment.”
“It’s adorable,” she insists. “And also, you did it.”
“I did what?” I ask.
“You tried,” Rosie says, suddenly softer. “You talked. You didn’t bolt. You didn’t fake a disappearance.”
“I considered it,” I admit.
Rosie nods. “I know. But you stayed.”
I swallow around the unexpected lump in my throat.
Rosie has always seen me. Not the polished version. The real one. The tired one. The one who pretends she’s fine because she doesn’t want to be a burden.
And as annoying as she is, she’s right.
I stayed.
Maybe I can do this.
Maybe I can be okay again.
Maybe one hour isn’t impossible.
“Okay,” Rosie says brightly again, snapping back into matchmaker mode. “Round two.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Rosie ignores me. “I have someone else—”
“No,” I repeat.
Rosie sighs dramatically. “Reece.”
“Rosie.”
She narrows her eyes. “Do you trust me?”
I stare at her.
This is a trap.
The answer is yes. The answer is always yes. Rosie is ridiculous but she has never wanted anything for me except happiness.
Which makes her dangerous.
“Yes,” I say carefully.
Rosie grins. “Great. Then go talk to that guy.”
I follow her gaze to a man across the room who looks normal. Reasonably normal. Not bulging eyes. Not full-body smile. He’s talking to someone quietly, hands in his pockets.
He looks… calm.
My stomach does a nervous little flip.
“No,” I say immediately.
Rosie’s eyes widen. “Reece.”
“I can’t,” I whisper.
Rosie’s voice softens. “Why?”
Because what if I do everything right and it still doesn’t work?
Because what if I let myself hope and then I have to walk away again with my heart in my throat?
Because what if I’m bad at this now?
Because what if I was never good at it and Jesse just made it easy until it wasn’t?
Because—
“I’m out of practice,” I say instead, which is the safest version of the truth.
Rosie nods like she understands. “That’s okay. Practice.”
Practice. Like dating is a skill and not a leap off a cliff.
My chest tightens.
I take a deep breath and force myself to nod.
“Okay,” I say, even though my whole body is screaming, No.
Rosie beams like she just won something.
“Atta girl,” she whispers.
I step away from the bar, clutching my sparkling water like a security blanket, and take exactly three steps before someone bumps my shoulder.
“Sorry!” a man says, then looks at me and smiles.
A normal smile.
Thank you, universe.
I smile back politely, then immediately realize I have no idea what I’m doing with my hands.
Why do hands exist?
Why do I have two of them?
Why do they suddenly feel like liability?
I take another step and almost walk directly into Brett again.
His smile returns, all teeth and enthusiasm.
“There she is!” he says, like we’re already best friends.
I make a noise that is not words and pivot away so fast I nearly spill my drink.
Okay.
No more Brett.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I almost relax—
—and my attention snaps to the entrance.
The door opens.
Cold air sweeps in.
A man steps inside, shaking off winter, and for a heartbeat the room feels like it tilts the way it did the first time I saw him in something other than his usual suit-and-tie armor.
Not in a dramatic way.
In a why does my chest feel tight way.
He’s here.
He’s relaxed.
He’s unfairly handsome.
And he’s the last person I expected to see in a room full of singles and candles and toothpick appetizers.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
I turn—
And Gage Donovan walks in.