Reece
My phone buzzes the second I step out of the elevator, like it’s been waiting for my feet to hit the lobby tile.
Rosie: I’m outside.
Rosie: By the big revolving door. The one that makes you feel like you’re entering a fancy aquarium.
Rosie: I can’t wait to see you tonight!
I keep walking, because this isn’t news. Rosie and I had plans. I agreed to them. I remember agreeing to them.
I just didn’t remember agreeing to them with the intensity of a hostage negotiation.
I glance down at the time anyway.
Rosie is early.
Of course she is. Rosie treats punctuality like a competitive sport.
I type back as I walk, weaving between commuters like I’ve trained for this.
Me: I’m coming. I’m literally in the lobby.
Me: Please stop acting like I’m going to escape out a window.
Rosie: You would if you could.
Rosie: I’m simply preventing crimes.
Me: I am not committing crimes. I am an accountant.
Rosie: Accountants commit crimes in Excel every day.
Rosie: Hurry. I’m hungry, and I will start eating random businessmen.
I snort, because she would say that in public and mean it emotionally, not literally.
Me: If you eat a random businessman, I’m not your alibi.
Rosie: Fine. I will only nibble.
I shake my head, but I’m smiling as I push through the lobby toward the revolving doors—because no matter how dramatic she is, Rosie showing up is always the same thing underneath.
Lots of Love and chaotically loud.
And sure enough, when I step outside—
Rosie is exactly where she said she would be—outside the building, leaning against a pillar like she’s starring in her own romantic comedy. Her hair is perfect. Her lipstick is perfect. Her outfit looks like it cost more than my laptop.
She lights up when she sees me and launches forward, arms already open.
“Reece Callahan,” she announces, like she’s addressing a courtroom. “There you are. In the flesh. With shoulders up to your ears.”
“I’m cold,” I say.
“It’s not that cold,” she replies.
“It’s emotionally cold,” I correct.
Rosie grabs my arm and starts towing me toward the street. “We’re getting you fed. We’re getting you laughing. And we’re getting you out of your head.”
“Are we?” I ask, letting myself be pulled because resisting Rosie is like trying to argue with gravity. “Or are you going to do that thing where you trick me into socializing and then act smug about it?”
Rosie glances back with a grin so bright it should require a warning label. “I would never trick you.”
I narrow my eyes. “That was not convincing.”
“It was extremely convincing,” she says. “You’re just suspicious because you’re a cautious person.”
“I’m not cautious,” I say automatically.
Rosie makes a noise. “Reece.”
“Okay,” I admit. “I’m cautious. But only because life is dangerous.”
Rosie gestures at the city like it’s evidence. “Life is delicious. Look around. Lights. People. Food. Possibility.”
I stare at her. “You sound like a motivational poster.”
“I am a motivational poster,” she says. “But with better shoes.”
She hails a car like she owns the street and slides us into the backseat before I can object to anything—including the fact that this is suddenly happening.
The driver pulls away, and Rosie turns fully to me, eyes softening.
“How are you?” she asks.
I open my mouth to answer with a joke.
Rosie lifts a finger. “Don’t.”
The finger is small. The tone is gentle.
It’s somehow terrifying.
“I’m fine,” I say anyway, because it’s my favorite lie.
Rosie’s look could peel paint.
I sigh. “I’m… functioning.”
“Mm,” Rosie says, like she’s taking notes. “And how are we doing on the ‘not dating for a year’ vow you swore dramatically to me on my couch?”
“I didn’t swear dramatically,” I protest.
“You swore dramatically,” she insists. “You pointed at your heart like it had betrayed you.”
I glare. “My heart did betray me.”
Rosie’s smile softens. “I know.”
That one sentence hits in the quiet space between us, and for a second, I want to fold inward. I want to hide behind my coat collar and pretend I’m just cold again.
Rosie reaches across the seat and squeezes my hand.
Then, like she can feel me about to spiral, she brightens immediately.
“Okay,” she says. “Dinner. Best friend therapy. And then—”
“No,” I cut in quickly.
Rosie blinks, innocent. “No what?”
“No ‘and then.’ No surprise agenda. No matchmaking.”
Rosie’s eyes widen. “Reece. I would never.”
I squint at her.
Rosie puts a hand to her chest. “I am wounded by your lack of trust.”
“That’s your natural state,” I say.
Rosie giggles. “Fine. No surprise agenda. Only dinner.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m fragile.”
Rosie nods solemnly. “So fragile. Like a well-organized spreadsheet.”
“Exactly.”
We end up at a cozy little place that Rosie claims is “casual,” which is matchmaker language for there will be candles and you will feel things.
The hostess greets Rosie like she’s royalty. Rosie is, unfortunately, royalty in most places in the city.
We sit. Menus appear. Rosie orders for herself with confidence and for me with alarming accuracy.
“I didn’t even tell you what I wanted,” I say.
“You don’t have to,” Rosie replies. “I know you. You’ll act adventurous and then panic and order chicken.”
“Excuse you,” I say, offended. “I ordered salmon last week.”
Rosie smirks. “On accident.”
I gasp. “It was a calculated choice.”
“You calculated incorrectly,” Rosie says, and then reaches for my hand again—just for a second, just to anchor me without turning it into a moment.
Rosie can be loud and dramatic and annoying in the way only someone who loves you can be.
But she’s also… steady and loving.
Which is why she’s the only person I’ll let drag me into dinner without warning.
We eat. We laugh. Rosie tells me about a client who tried to bring a PowerPoint to a date.
“A PowerPoint,” I repeat, horrified.
Rosie nods. “With transitions.”
“Transitions,” I echo, like it’s a crime.
“And,” Rosie adds, delighted, “a pie chart.”
I press my hands to my face. “This is why love is dead.”
“This is why love needs guidance,” Rosie corrects.
“Love needs therapy,” I say.
Rosie points her fork at me. “Love needs you to stop acting like you’re above it.”
“I’m not above it,” I argue.
Rosie raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. “I’m tired.”
There it is.
The truth slips out, quiet and unguarded.
Rosie’s expression softens again, but she doesn’t pounce on it.
She just nods. “I know.”
I stare at my plate for a beat too long.
Then Rosie, very casually, says, “So. Thursday.”
I look up immediately. “No.”
Rosie smiles sweetly. “Yes.”
“I am not doing a singles event,” I say. “I am not doing forced small talk. I am not doing ‘So what do you do?’ conversations. I do not want to explain to strangers that I reconcile accounts for a living and pretend it’s a personality.”
Rosie sips her water like she’s listening to a cute story. “It’s one hour.”
“No.”
“Harmless.”
“No.”
“Fun.”
“No.”
“Free appetizers,” Rosie says.
I pause.
Rosie’s eyes gleam. “And there it is. Your weakness.”
“I’m not weak,” I say.
Rosie leans forward. “Reece. You don’t have to meet anyone. You don’t have to flirt. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You just have to show up. Let yourself be in a room that isn’t work or home.”
I open my mouth.
Rosie holds up her hand. “And before you say you’re fine—”
“I’m fine,” I say anyway.
Rosie’s look is patient, but it’s also deeply unimpressed.
I groan. “I’m… lonely.”
The word tastes like defeat.
Rosie’s face softens so completely it makes my chest ache. “I know.”
I swallow. “But if I tell you this, you’re going to start setting me up with someone immediately.”
Rosie laughs, delighted. “Reece, that’s literally my job.”
“I know,” I say. “And that’s the problem.”
Rosie points at me like she’s about to make a speech. “Okay. What kind of guy do you want?”
“Rosie—”
“What kind,” she repeats, smiling like she’s enjoying this far too much.
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. Someone steady.”
Rosie nods eagerly.
“Someone calm,” I continue, because my mouth is moving now and my brain is regretting it.
“Mm-hmm,” Rosie hums.
“Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to be perfect to be worth keeping,” I say, quieter.
Rosie’s eyes soften again, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“Someone who actually shows up,” I finish.
Rosie sits back, blinking at me like she just witnessed a miracle.
Then she smiles—slow and smug and lethal.
“So,” she says, “you just described Gage.”
I choke on absolutely nothing, because apparently my body is committed to dramatics.
“I did not,” I say quickly.
Rosie’s grin widens. “Reece.”
“I did not,” I insist, voice higher than I want it to be.
Rosie tilts her head. “You want someone steady, calm, protective, reliable, quietly devoted, and allergic to chaos. That’s Gage.”
“Gage is my boss,” I blurt.
Rosie waves a hand. “Technicality.”
“He’s my neighbor,” I add.
Rosie nods. “Even better.”
“He’s my best friend,” I snap, because that one matters more than the others.
Rosie’s expression turns softer. “Exactly.”
My throat tightens.
I hate this conversation.
I also hate that she’s not wrong in a way that makes my stomach do that weird little flip I’ve been trying to ignore for two months.
Rosie reaches across the table and taps my knuckles lightly. “I’m not saying you have to date him.”
“Thank you,” I say quickly.
Rosie smiles sweetly. “I’m saying you have to stop pretending your heart doesn’t already trust him.”
I glare at her.
Rosie beams back, unbothered. “Anyway. Thursday.”
“No,” I repeat.
“One hour,” Rosie sings.
“Rosie—”
“I will have someone there who fits what you just said,” Rosie promises, leaning in. “Someone steady. Someone calm. Someone who shows up.”
I squint at her. “You’re not listening.”
“I’m listening,” she insists. “I’m just ignoring the parts that are fear and focusing on the parts that are you.”
That is… unfortunately poetic.
I sigh. “Fine.”
Rosie’s eyes light up.
“One hour,” I warn.
“Of course,” Rosie says, immediately too cheerful.
“No forcing me to talk to anyone.”
“Never,” Rosie lies.
I point my fork at her. “Rosie.”
She presses a hand to her chest. “I am the picture of innocence.”
“You are the picture of chaos,” I correct.
Rosie smiles. “Yes. But I’m your chaos.”
I hate that my eyes sting a little.
By the time dinner ends, my cheeks hurt from laughing, which is rude because I didn’t give my face permission to feel good.
Rosie walks me back toward Penn like it’s an escort mission.
“I can walk from here if you need to get back home,” I say.
“I know,” Rosie replies. “I’m just walking you to Penn like you’re a celebrity and I’m your unpaid security.”
“That’s unnecessary.”
“It’s best friend behavior,” she says. “Let me have my job.”
At the entrance, she hugs me tight.
“You’re doing great,” she murmurs.
“I ordered salmon once,” I say.
Rosie laughs into my shoulder. “I’m talking about life, but sure.”
I groan. “Goodnight, Rosie.”
“Goodnight, Reece,” she calls after me. “Don’t forget you have a future husband to impress!”
I lift my hand in a vague gesture of dismissal and walk into Penn Station, swallowed by lights and echoes and the feeling that my life is somehow being rearranged by a woman in heels.
On the train, my phone buzzes again.
This time, I already know who it is before I look.
Gage: You on your way home?
My chest warms in a way that’s annoyingly immediate.
I type back:
Me: Yep.
Me: I survived dinner.
Me: Rosie did not eat any businessmen. Small victory.
A moment later:
Gage: Proud of you.
Gage: Need a ride from the station?
I stare at the screen.
He doesn’t have to do that. He never has to do that.
He just… does.
My brain tries to be normal about it. My brain fails.
Me: I have an Uber picking me up.
Me: But thank you.
Gage: Okay. Let me know when you’re home.
And there it is. The same line, the same quiet insistence, the same steady check-in we’ve had since we were kids.
I can practically hear his voice saying it like it’s casual, like it’s nothing.
Like it doesn’t mean I care.
I type back the only answer I’ve ever given him.
Me: Always.
I stare at the word after I send it, like maybe this time it will mean something different.
It doesn’t.
It means exactly what it has always meant.
I’m yours to worry about.
Which is a ridiculous thing to think.
So I don’t think it.
I watch the dark blur of Long Island through the window instead, my reflection ghosted over it—tired eyes, softened expression, the faintest hint of a smile I didn’t earn.
When the train reaches Merrick, my Uber is waiting. I get in and let myself be quiet the whole ride home.
By the time I step into my house, the silence wraps around me like a blanket.
I drop my tote by the kitchen table, kick off my boots, and exhale.
Then I remember Thursday.
And I remember Rosie’s smug face.
And my stomach tightens.
I wander to my bedroom and stare at my closet like it has personally offended me.
My closet stares back.
Fine.
If Rosie wants one hour, she’s getting one hour.
I pull out my phone and open a note titled:
THURSDAY: EVENT PLAN (FOR SURVIVAL)
I start typing like I’m auditing my own social life.
· Arrive: 7:00 p.m.
· Leave: 8:00 p.m. (no later, no exceptions)
· Snack contingency: eat beforehand so I don’t accept appetizers from strangers out of desperation
· Escape phrases:
? “I promised my friend I’d check in.”
? “I have an early train.”
? “My accountant instincts are tingling.”
· Do not:
? overshare
? drink anything that makes me “brave”
? let Rosie introduce me as “recently single” (this is not a zoo exhibit)
I pause, fingers hovering.
Because underneath the jokes, underneath the lists, underneath the rules…
There’s the truth I won’t say out loud.
I miss being wanted.
I miss being chosen.
I miss laughing like dinner tonight without having to brace for the drop afterward.
I swallow, annoyed with myself, and shove the feeling back into a neat little box labeled NOT TONIGHT.
My phone buzzes.
Rosie, of course.
Rosie: Outfit check for Thursday: you want to dress to impress. You know my success rate.
I stare at the message.
Then I glance at my closet again—hostile, judgmental, full of fabrics that all seem to whisper good luck, babe.
I type back:
Me: Like that makes this any easier.
The bubbles appear immediately.
Rosie is typing.
My stomach flips.
Because of course she is.
And because Thursday is suddenly much too close.