Chapter 8
GARLIC KNOTS AND RED FLAGS
RORIE
Giovanni’s is packed
The lunch rush roars around us, a full-blown symphony of clinking plates, shouting servers, and sizzling garlic-scented mayhem.
I’m wedged in a corner booth with Maya and Jeremy where the vinyl is cracked and patched, and the table is sticky despite the waitress’s best efforts. I’m picking at a basket of garlic knots that are definitely going to kill my breath. Risky, considering I have a pitch this afternoon. But worth it.
My phone buzzes beside my plate. I swipe it fast.
Spam. Again.
I set it down, screen-up, then turn it face down.
Maya lets out a sigh, equal parts judgment and curiosity. “Okay, Rorie, you’ve checked that thing more times than a teenage girl waiting on a Snapchat. Spill.”
Jeremy perks up, eyes wide. “Ohhh, is this a boy thing?”
Maya lifts a perfectly arched brow, tearing a garlic knot in half. “Is it?”
I roll my eyes and push the phone away. “It’s nothing.”
Jeremy leans in, elbows on the table, as if we’re about to unlock national secrets over marinara and mocktails. “Nothing doesn’t make your pupils dilate like that, babe.”
“It’s work stuff.”
“Work stuff with cheekbones?” Maya presses. “And maybe a dimple?”
“It’s not a boy thing,” I insist. “Or a Nolan Rhodes thing.”
There’s a beat of silence. They both stare. Waiting.
Jeremy grins. “So it is Nolan Rhodes.”
“It’s not!”
“Rorie.” Jeremy gives me a look that would make a nun confess.
I slump back against the booth. “It’s not a big deal. Some guy texted me by mistake last night. Thought I was his ex. I answered. We talked for a few hours. It was dumb.”
“Oh. My. God!” Jeremy claps his hands together like a delighted seal. “It’s a digital meet-cute!”
Maya’s expression tightens, her suspicion immediate. “What’s his name?”
I blink. “I…don’t know.”
She stares at me as though I told her I handed my social security number to a guy in a ski mask. “Let me get this straight. You stayed up texting some random guy for hours, and at no point did you exchange names?”
“It didn’t come up,” I mutter, peeling at the edge of a napkin.
Maya gingerly sets her garlic knot down. “Rorie.”
“Relax, Maya.” Jeremy waves her off. “It’s a mystery text thread, not a blood pact. You don’t exactly get W-2s on Romance Roulette either.”
“Yeah,” she snaps back. “But you do get a name.”
“Not always a real one. The last guy’s username was ThickRickOfficial, but he ghosted me the second I asked for proof.”
“Why are you still on there?” Maya asks.
He shrugs. “Hope springs eternal. And so do liars with Wi-Fi and a ring light.”
“Exactly my point.” Maya refocuses on me. “Why’d you keep texting him?”
Because he made me laugh. Because I forgot about Vanguard. About Nolan and Big Stream. About everything I keep failing to outrun. Because it felt like floating after months of trying not to drown.
“I was bored. He was funny. It distracted me.”
Maya doesn’t buy it. “A distraction is online shopping. Or rewatching crime docs for the hundredth time. This is how Dateline episodes start.”
Jeremy sighs. “If I had a dollar for every time Maya accused me of being future true crime content…”
Maya ignores him. “I’m serious, Rorie. You’re vulnerable right now. You just lost your parents. You like, just broke up with Quinn—” She stops, the name hanging there like a slap. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Quinn,” I echo. “You mean the guy who vanished the second my life fell apart?”
She doesn’t respond.
“I’m not getting hurt,” I say, more biting than intended. “It’s just texting.”
“Texting leads to feelings. Feelings lead to complications. Complications—”
Jeremy throws up his hands. “Oh my God, is this the Jedi path to heartbreak? Let the girl live, Yoda.” He turns to me. “This is awesome. You get the fun of flirting without the weird first-date pressure. No bad appetizers, no forced conversation about your childhood dog. Just good vibes.”
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s like a digital-age pen pal.”
Jeremy beams. “I would absolutely wear that on a shirt.”
Maya mutters, “You two are exhausting.”
I laugh.
But then she softens,. “Just don’t fall for a fantasy, okay? Because when it crashes, it’s all in your head—but the pain is still there.”
Her words land with more weight than I expect. I shift in my seat.
Then I smile too brightly. “It’s not that deep, Maya.”
She exhales, arms crossing. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when your mystery man turns out to be a forty-five-year-old cat dad who types in Comic Sans.”
“Hey!” Jeremy raises his glass. “To mystery men and Comic Sans. May they reign forever.”
I lift my glass and clink his.
Maya leans forward one last time, her voice quiet but steady. “Promise me you won’t get too lost in this.”
I nod.
And lie through my teeth.