Chapter 18 Rosanna
Chapter eighteen
Rosanna
Sunday's street art festival lingers in my mind days later as I sit at my illustration table, sketching character designs for my current project.
Something shifted between Seamus and me that day.
I still feel the ghost of his hand in mine, the unexpected warmth of his fingers.
That touch wasn’t for cameras. It was real.
The morning light streams through my studio window, illuminating the organized chaos of my workspace. The reference books are stacked in precarious towers, sketches are pinned to corkboards, cups of brushes and pens are sorted by type and purpose.
Outside this door, I still move carefully.
I know I'm temporary. This is a six-month arrangement. We’re nearly two in.
My eyes catch on the other sketchbook lying open at my elbow.
The Seamus Project.
I’ve added another page this week.
Seamus and I beneath a mural, fingers threaded.
I let the color bleed from our joined hands into his sleeve.
My phone buzzes with an email notification. It's from Shay again, his third message this week.
His emails have increased in frequency and depth lately, shifting from our usual casual updates to more thoughtful reflections on connection, authenticity, and finding meaning in unexpected places.
It's like my pen pal somehow sensed I needed this particular touchstone during this strange transitional period.
I open the message eagerly, finding a response to my description of the art festival (carefully edited to exclude any mention of Seamus or our arrangement).
"There's something powerful about temporary art," Shay writes. "Maybe the fact that it's temporary makes it more precious. It forces us to appreciate what exists now rather than assuming it will always be there."
The observation resonates with my own feelings about the festival, about the neighborhood fighting for preservation, about the strange in-between space I currently occupy with Seamus.
I find myself smiling as I read Shay's thoughtful analysis, appreciating how he always seems to expand my perspective rather than simply validating it.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I consider my reply, but a glance at the clock tells me I'm already running late for coffee with Luna.
I close the laptop, promising myself I'll respond tonight.
***
"You're actually defending him now?" Luna's eyebrows rise so high they nearly disappear beneath her dark curls.
We're seated at our usual corner table in Grounds for Thought, the independent coffee shop halfway between the penthouse and Luna's apartment.
Luna stirs her lavender latte with aggressive swirls, her skepticism evident in every movement.
"The same billionaire demolition man you were ready to chain yourself to a building to stop? That Seamus O'Malley?"
"He's more complicated than I thought," I admit, cradling my chai between my hands. "There's a person beneath all that corporate armor. He's thoughtful, observant, and even kind in his own careful way."
The defense feels strange, yet completely sincere.
Luna studies me with the penetrating gaze that has seen through my defenses since college.
Her silence prompts me to continue, words spilling out about the book Seamus left by my coffee cup, the dinner we cooked together, the way he listened when I explained the significance of historical buildings.
"At the festival, he actually seemed to understand why the storefront matters so much to me."
"Understanding doesn't mean he'll change anything," Luna points out, ever the pragmatist. "His company is still planning to bulldoze the whole block, including your dream space. One art festival doesn't change that."
Her words land like a stone in still water, ripples of doubt disturbing the tentative warmth I've been nurturing.
“I know,” I say, frustration tightening my voice. “I haven’t even heard back on my counter-offer. It’s been over a month.”
Luna frowns. “What are they waiting for?”
“The owner thinks O’MalleyMart is going to raise their bid,” I explain. “They put in their initial offer and started the acquisition process. I made mine, and now he’s waiting. Hoping a bidding war drives the price up.”
“So you’re leverage.”
“Apparently.”
She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, her expression softening. "I'm just worried about you, Rosie. This was supposed to be a strategic arrangement, not... whatever is happening now."
I withdraw my hand, suddenly defensive.
"Nothing is happening. We're maintaining the arrangement as planned."
Even I don’t believe that.
Luna's expression makes it clear she's not convinced. "I see how you look when you talk about him."
"Anyway," I continue, desperate to shift the focus, "I've been writing more with my pen pal lately. Shay. Remember how I told you about him? We've been writing to each other since elementary school."
Luna nods, allowing the subject change with visible reluctance.
I continue. "He's been sending these incredibly thoughtful emails lately, almost like he knows exactly what I need to hear. It's been nice, having that connection separate from all this."
I gesture vaguely, encompassing the artificial construct of my current life.
"So you're emotionally leaning on your childhood pen pal while developing feelings for your contract husband," Luna summarizes with the blunt clarity that makes her both an invaluable friend and occasionally insufferable.
"That doesn't sound complicated at all."
Her sarcasm is gentle but pointed.
"Just be careful, Rosie. Remember why you're really there—to save your storefront and get through the six months. Everything else is... risky."
I nod, acknowledging her concern while privately wondering if it's already too late for such caution.
I’m no longer sure where pretending ends.
***
Back at the penthouse, I find myself alone for the evening. Seamus texted earlier about a late meeting, his message characteristically brief but ending with an unexpected "Hope your coffee with Luna was enjoyable".
The empty apartment feels different now than it did in those first awkward weeks.
What was once intimidating space has become familiar territory.
I know which floorboard creaks near the kitchen island, how to adjust the shower to my preferred temperature, the perfect spot on the living room sofa to catch the last of the evening light for reading.
I settle at my desk with a cup of tea, opening my laptop to respond to Shay's email at last.
His words about impermanence and appreciation have been cycling through my thoughts all day, intertwining with Luna's warnings about getting emotionally invested in a situation designed to be temporary.
My fingers move across the keyboard, composing a response that feels more honest than I've allowed myself to be lately.
I write about how sometimes artificial structures can create space for authentic connection, about the challenge of distinguishing between what's real and what's circumstantial.
"Is it possible that something beginning as pretense can transform into truth? Or am I simply convincing myself of a reality I want to see because the alternative is too complicated to accept?"
The questions feel dangerous even as I type them, too revealing of my confused emotions regarding Seamus.
But Shay has always been my safe space for working through complicated feelings.
After sending the email, I remain at my desk, sketching idly as I process the day's conversations.
Luna's concern weighs on me, the practical voice of reason reminding me that the foundation of my relationship with Seamus is a contract, not an organic connection.
Yet I can't discount the genuine moments we've shared, the small bridges being built between our separate worlds.
My phone buzzes with an alert—Shay has already replied, much sooner I expected. I open the message eagerly, finding a response that seems to address my unspoken concerns.
"You once told me you do your best work inside limitations. Maybe people are the same. Maybe what feels like constraint is just structure. Sometimes what starts as performance turns into preference—if we let it."
I close my phone and lay it face down.
Has my performance become preference?
The way he looked at me at the museum. His hand at my waist. The quiet way he listens.
I let out a slow breath.
I'm in trouble.