Chapter Three Crying in Succulents
Rhys
AND RHYS, STILL mid-toss, froze just a half second too long. Enough for Sir Stumps-a-Lot to whiff the catch and dramatically roll into a bush.
Rhys didn’t notice.
Rhys stood there in the fading sunlight, Frisbee forgotten, watching Linda vanish around the corner like a scarf-clad fever dream he might've hallucinated. He wasn’t used to someone throwing him off balance. He kind of liked it. Maybe too much.
“Plot twist,” he murmured to the dog. “We need to use the office party to talk to her. Finally. ”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot emerged from the bush with a pinecone in his mouth, tail wagging like a tiny metronome of destiny. He dropped it with a wet thunk and looked up expectantly.
Rhys exhaled. “Yeah, yeah. I saw her.”
He pulled out his phone.
Scrolled to the group chat with his twin sisters—Liv and Darcy—who treated his emotional life like a group project they refused to let him fail.
Room of Requirement ( Named by Liv. No one’s ever challenged her. )
Rhys: Need help picking an outfit that says “I’m not an asshole, please talk to me.”
Liv: Babe. That’s a lot of ask for one button-down.
Darcy: So you want “remorseful but also moisturized”?
Rhys: More like “emotionally available accountant with good arms.”
Liv: Ohhhh. You want “I cried in therapy and now own a succulent. ”
Darcy: You want “soft-spoken reformed bad boy but in slacks.”
Rhys: Yes. That. But like… no cardigan. Not yet.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot yawned in solidarity.
Darcy: Is this about Elevator Girl?
Liv: It's so about Elevator Girl.
Rhys: She saw me in the park. I think I scared her off. With my… face?
Darcy: Were you shirtless again?
Rhys: No! Fitted tee. It was laundry day. Back off.
Liv: Okay, but your fitted tee gives “I play sad boy indie guitar covers for my dog.”
Darcy: Wear the navy button-down. It says “I apologize sincerely and alphabetize my spice rack. ”
Liv: YES. With the sad boy brown boots. And the belt that whispers “I own vinyl, but only cry to the B-sides.”
Rhys: I hate how much I trust you both.
Darcy: You should. We’re terrifying.
Liv: You’ll thank us at your future wedding-slash-bookstore café grand opening.
Sir Stumps barked once. Judgmental. Encouraging.
Darcy: And for God’s sake, bring the lint roller this time. You looked like you hugged a Yeti last time you wore navy.
Rhys sighed, smiling despite himself.
He pocketed his phone.
“Alright,” he said, mostly to the dog. “We have a plan. I just have to survive until Friday and then not be weird. ”
Sir Stumps snorted.
“…okay, less weird than usual. ”
The corgi trotted ahead, tail wagging like the signal flare of a tactical romance maneuver.
Rhys followed.
Friday was coming.
And he was bringing buttoned-up emotional availability and mild cologne.
With backup.
Rhys looked down. “You’re going to have to get me the opportunity.”
The dog sneezed.
Challenge accepted.