Reece
“Cheers.”
I clink my glass against a stranger’s like I know what I’m doing.
I do not know what I’m doing.
The woman beside me—late twenties, shiny hair, confident posture, probably owns a lip gloss that costs more than my electric bill—smiles like this is a normal Thursday activity and not a social endurance sport.
“To new beginnings,” she says.
“Yes,” I agree quickly, because that sounds like something a person at a bar is supposed to say. “New beginnings. Very… beginning-y.”
She laughs politely. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m funny or because she’s kind.
Either way, I will take it.
The bar is warm and dim, all soft lighting and low music, and the kind of ambiance designed to make people feel romantic instead of terrified.
Candles are on the tables. Tiny appetizers are being carried around on trays like hope with toothpicks.
The air smells like citrus and cologne and the dangerous idea that someone might make eye contact with me on purpose.
Rosie is somewhere in this room, smiling like a villain who believes she’s a hero.
And I am here because I love her.
One hour. That’s it.
I can do really anything for one hour.
I have done taxes for longer than one hour. I have done the month-end close. I have attended three-hour meetings where someone said “circling back” like it was a personality trait. I have watched grown adults argue over a font choice like it would determine the fate of the nation.
I can survive one hour of… whatever this is.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I take a sip of my water and try not to look like someone who might fake a medical emergency to escape a conversation.
The woman beside me takes a sip of her drink and asks, “So how do you know Rosie?”
I open my mouth and immediately almost say, She’s the reason I’m here against my will, but I decide to go with something friendlier.
“Best friends,” I say. “Since forever. She’s basically the human version of a megaphone.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh my gosh, I love her. She has so much energy.”
“Yes,” I say. “She has… enough energy for a small city.”
I glance around the room, trying to locate Rosie without looking like I’m scanning for exits. This is difficult, because my body is physically scanning for exits. My brain is the one pretending this is casual.
There are people everywhere. Laughing. Smiling. Leaning in close. Making eye contact. Talking with their hands. Existing in a way that feels wildly irresponsible.
I can’t believe I used to do this.
Not the bar thing. The dating thing.
I used to be able to walk into a room and flirt and not think about it. I used to be able to laugh without my brain whispering, Careful. Don’t want too much.
Now, my brain whispers everything.
Careful. Don’t look desperate.
Careful. Don’t look like you’re trying.
Careful. Don’t look like you’ve been single for two months and still have Jesse’s name stuck in your ribs like a splinter.
Two months.
It shouldn’t feel like a long time. It shouldn’t feel like a short time. It should feel like a neat line on a timeline: Relationship ended, life continues.
Instead, it feels like walking around with a bruise that no one can see. Most days, it’s fine. Most days, I don’t think about it until something bumps it.
Like a “new beginnings” toast at a singles event.
Like a room full of strangers who are all doing the thing I used to do—hopeful, brave, open.
Like the idea that I’m supposed to be open again when I’m still learning how to trust my own judgment.
Because that’s the part Jesse broke that makes me the most mad: not my heart. My judgment.
I knew he wasn’t steady.
I knew he liked the easy parts of me best.
I still stayed.
And that’s on me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t need to look to know it’s Rosie.
She has been texting me all day like I’m a celebrity and she’s my publicist.
I pull my phone out anyway.
Rosie: WHERE ARE YOU
Rosie: If you found a corner to hide in, I will drag you into the light like a plant that needs sun.
I glance around again, and this time I spot her across the room, waving like she’s trying to signal a rescue helicopter.
I quickly type:
Me: I am at the bar.
Me: I am being normal.
Me: Please do not drag me anywhere.
Three dots pop up immediately.
Rosie: TOO LATE
I barely have time to put my phone away before I hear her voice.
“REECE!”
People turn. Of course they do.
Rosie barrels through the crowd like she owns the building, arms open, smiling bright enough to power the lights.
She reaches me and throws her arms around my shoulders in a hug that’s half affection, half triumph.
“You came,” she says into my hair like I might still bolt.
“I’m here,” I say, muffled. “I am physically present.”
Rosie pulls back and frames my face with her hands like she’s inspecting a priceless artifact. “Look at you. So brave. So hot.”
“Rosie,” I hiss, because we are in public and I would like to remain a mysterious woman, not a project.
“What?” she says sweetly. “I’m complimenting you.”
She turns to the woman beside me. “Hi! I’m Rosie. I’m the reason this gorgeous accountant is out past her bedtime.”
I close my eyes.
The woman laughs. “I’m Becky.”
“Hi, Becky!” Rosie chirps. “Thank you for being nice to Reece. She’s feral right now.”
“I am not feral,” I protest.
Rosie pats my cheek. “She’s feral,” she tells Becky. “But don’t worry. We’re rehabilitating her.”
“I do not need rehabilitation,” I say.
Rosie leans in, smile sugary. “You texted me last month that your idea of fun was reorganizing your sock drawer.”
“That was one time,” I say quickly.
“It was three times,” Rosie corrects. “And you sent pictures.”
“I was proud,” I mutter, because I was. My socks are color-coded now. My socks are living their best life.
Rosie claps her hands once, like a director calling action. “Okay. We’re starting with something easy.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t like that.”
Rosie ignores me. “Becky, darling, I’ll steal her for a second. Go mingle. Stay hydrated. Don’t trust any man named Chad.”
Becky laughs and drifts away like she belongs here.
Rosie turns to me and beams. “How do you feel?”
“Like I want to fake my own disappearance,” I say honestly.
Rosie nods like that’s normal. “Great. Perfect. That means you’re alive.”
“That means I’m panicking.”
“Same thing,” Rosie says brightly. “Come on.”
“Rosie—”
She hooks her arm through mine like she’s escorting me to my execution.
“I promised you one hour,” she says. “So we’re going to make this one hour count. You can do anything for one hour.”
“I feel like you’re using my own logic against me.”
“I am,” Rosie says. “Because it works.”
She guides me forward through the crowd, and every step feels like walking deeper into a group project I did not volunteer for.
Which is funny, because I love group projects—on paper. In theory. When the group is me and a spreadsheet and the project is “balance.”
Human group projects are mostly just chaos.
Then it happens.
We round a table, and a man turns toward me with the biggest smile I have ever seen.
Not a normal smile.
A full-body smile.
All teeth. Every tooth. His eyes are wide, like he’s meeting a woman for the first time and is trying to remember how faces work.
He takes one step closer.
“Hi!” he says, loud and enthusiastic. “I’m Brett!”
His smile stretches wider.
His eyes do a weird bulge thing.
My soul leaves my body and hovers near the ceiling.
Rosie squeezes my arm, whispering, “Be nice.”
“I’m being nice,” I whisper back through a tight smile that I am pretty sure qualifies as a cry for help.
Brett extends his hand like we’re closing a deal.
I shake it automatically.
His handshake is… damp.
Not sweaty. Not clammy.
Just damp, like he recently washed his hands and didn’t fully commit to drying them.
I try not to flinch, because I am a grown woman. I am mature. I have handled worse things than a damp handshake.
I have handled multiple tax seasons.
“Reece!” Rosie announces. “This is Brett. He’s sweet, he’s funny, he loves dogs, and he is very gainfully employed.”
Brett nods vigorously like gainful employment is his greatest personality trait. “I work in sales!”
“That’s… great,” I say, because that feels like the safest response to a man this enthusiastic.
Rosie beams. “Reece is an accountant.”
Brett’s eyes light up like I’m a new product line. “Oh wow! Numbers!”
“Yes,” I say. “I love them. They are… safe.”
Brett laughs loudly. “I love numbers too! I like seeing how much I can make!”
“Fun,” I say, voice rising slightly. “Fun for you.”
Rosie gives me a look that says, Try.
I try.
“So,” I say. “What do you do for fun, Brett?”
Brett grins again. “I go out! I love being social!”
I nod as if that is not my nightmare. “Wow. Love that.”
He leans closer, enthusiastic in a way that feels like he’s about to offer me a free sample. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not, like, accounting?”
I open my mouth to say something normal.
Something like reading. Or cooking. Or spending time with friends. Or the honest answer: falling asleep at nine PM. with a comfort show on because my life is exhausting and I’m an adult now.
Instead, my brain—traitorous—serves me the first thing that pops up:
You reconcile things. Like bank statements. Much safer.
And because my mouth is not always on my side, I say, “I’m very… fiscally responsible.”
Brett blinks. “Like… with money?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “But also… in life.”
Rosie’s eyes widen.
I want to crawl under the table.
Brett laughs, delighted. “That’s awesome. I’m fiscally irresponsible!”
“Shocking,” I say, deadpan.
He doesn’t pick up the sarcasm. He just nods like I complimented him.
“Do you like… budgeting?” Brett asks, genuinely curious, like we’re about to bond over spreadsheets as a love language.
I smile politely. “I like… knowing where things are.”
Brett leans in even more. “Wow. That’s so cool. My ex used to always tell me I was bad with money.”
My stomach tightens.
Ex.