Reece
My tires crunch over leftover salt and slush as I pull into the parking lot of my first client meeting, and I tell myself—very firmly—that I am being mature.
Professional.
Responsible.
An adult woman who made a perfectly reasonable scheduling adjustment because the roads are still annoying and people are still dramatic about commuting after a storm.
I put the car in park.
I exhale.
I immediately pick up my phone like it might contain instructions titled HOW TO SURVIVE SEEING YOUR BEST FRIEND AFTER YOU KISSED HIM with a convenient step-by-step list and a coupon for emotional stability.
My lock screen lights up.
Six texts.
One missed call.
All from one person.
Rosie.
Of course.
Because Rosie doesn’t do quiet.
Rosie does alerts.
Rosie: REPORT.
Rosie: Good morning by the way.
Rosie: Did you see him on the platform??
Rosie: Did you die??
Rosie: If you ghost me I will drive to Long Island and sit on your stoop until you get home.
Rosie: CALL ME.
I stare at the screen until it dims, like my phone is embarrassed for me.
Then I tap it awake again, because I’m also embarrassed for me and I enjoy suffering.
I type.
Me: I am alive.
Me: Nobody died.
Me: I am at a client meeting.
Three dots pop up immediately, like Rosie has been hovering over her phone with both thumbs and a prayer.
Rosie: THAT’S NOT AN UPDATE.
Rosie: Platform moment. NOW.
I swallow, staring through my windshield at a minivan that looks like it’s seen things.
I type the clean version first.
Me: I’m not in the city today.
There’s a pause.
Then—
Rosie: Why?
My fingers hesitate.
Because I could say: the snow made commuting hard.
Which is true.
I could also say: I couldn’t face him without my brain short-circuiting and my heart trying to throw itself out a window.
Which is also true.
I choose honesty with a side of denial.
Me: I asked both clients if they could stay on Long Island since the snow made commuting hard.
Me: It made sense.
Rosie’s typing bubble appears and stays for a long time, which is never a good sign.
Rosie: That’s not weather planning.
Rosie: That’s emotional ducking.
I make a face.
Me: I am not ducking.
Me: I am… re-routing.
Rosie: You kissed him and now you’re hiding behind a client calendar.
My stomach twists, because reading it in a text makes it sound even more unhinged.
You kissed him.
As if it was something that happened in a movie to a different person with less anxiety and more lip gloss.
Me: I am being professional.
Rosie: You are terrified.
I stare at the steering wheel.
I should argue.
I should defend myself.
I should come up with a perfectly balanced statement that sounds composed and mature, like: I am temporarily prioritizing stability because stability is my brand.
Instead, what comes out in my head is:
I kissed the person who has been my safe place for over twenty years, and my body thinks the safest thing to do now is pretend I never had a mouth.
I inhale.
Exhale.
I type:
Me: I have to go in.
Me: Please do not sit on my stoop.
Me: Love you.
Rosie responds immediately.
Rosie: Love you too.
Rosie: I will the next time if that means getting answers.
Rosie: TALK TO HIM.
I shove the phone into my bag like it personally insulted me, grab my tote, and step out of the car.
Cold air hits my cheeks.
I square my shoulders.
I am Reece Callahan, accountant, competent, professional, woman who can handle hard conversations and budgets and vendors who think paying invoices is optional.
I can handle one day.
I walk into Client Meeting #1 like I didn’t just get roasted by a matchmaker at 9:02 A.M.
The conference room smells like printer paper and coffee that’s been sitting too long, which is comforting in a bleak way.
Numbers.
Spreadsheets.
Facts.
No kissing.
No feelings.
No Gage.
I shake hands. I smile. I sit. I open my laptop.
For forty-five minutes, I am excellent.
I explain the reconciliation issue. I catch the discrepancy. I calm the client down with the same voice I use on toddlers and panicking executives—gentle, firm, and mildly amused.
“Your totals aren’t wrong,” I say. “They’re just… in a different place than you expected.”
The client laughs, relieved.
They ask questions. I answer them. I take notes. I solve the problem like it’s a puzzle, and puzzles are safe.
And then, while I’m talking about a simple adjustment, my brain decides to take a field trip to THE KISS.
Warm.
Quiet.
His hand at my waist like he was holding me without trapping me.
The way my chest felt like it finally stopped bracing.
I blink hard and keep talking.
No one in this room knows that I kissed my boss.
No one in this room knows that I am one decent smile away from combusting.
I finish the meeting. I stand. I smile again.
“Anything else you need?” I ask, calm.
Inside, I am screaming.
The client shakes my hand. “This was incredibly helpful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “That’s what I’m here for.”
I leave the building, get back in my car, and stare forward like the road might offer emotional guidance.
It does not.
My phone buzzes again.
I don’t look.
Because if I look and it’s Rosie, I’ll throw it into the cup holder and drive into the ocean.
I take a breath and do what I do best when my life feels unstable.
I budget.
Okay, Reece. Budget time.
· Allocate 10 minutes to panic.
· Cap intrusive thoughts at three per hour.
· Emergency reserve: one granola bar and two deep breaths.
· No big decisions until after lunch.
I nod once like I just presented the most reasonable plan in the world.
Then I drive to Client Meeting #2.
The office is warmer. The people are friendlier. Someone offers me a cookie, and I almost cry, which is ridiculous, because it’s a cookie, not a hug. Meeting #2 is going even better than meeting #1.
I keep it together.
I do the thing.
I solve another problem.
I make another person feel calmer.
I am competent in the way I’ve always been competent—like it’s a muscle, like it’s the part of me I can count on.
When I walk back to my car, I feel proud.
For five seconds.
Then the panic returns, because competence doesn’t solve feelings.
Competence doesn’t stop you from replaying a moment where you felt safe and wanted and seen.
Competence doesn’t stop the way my stomach flips when I remember the way Gage looked at me afterward.
Like he was terrified to hurt me.
Like he cared too much.
I sit in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, and stare at the dashboard.
I should talk to him.
Rosie is right.
I hate that Rosie is right.
But the idea of looking at Gage and saying, So, about yesterday, when I kissed you like I forgot how to be careful… makes my brain try to exit through my ears.
So instead, I do what any healthy adult does when faced with emotional vulnerability.
I go to the grocery store.
The fluorescent lights hit me like a reality check.
I grab a cart.
I tell myself this is normal.
This is what normal people do after client meetings.
They buy groceries.
They do not spiral in the produce aisle.
I push the cart toward the greens, because I am trying to be the kind of person who eats leafy things and not just granola bars.
I pick up a bag of salad mix.
Then I pause, staring at it like it’s a life choice.
There are couples everywhere.
A man holding a basket while his girlfriend compares two brands of pasta sauce like it’s a sacred ritual.
A woman laughing while her husband pretends to be offended by a yogurt label.
A little old couple sharing one cart, moving slowly, gently.
My throat tightens for no reason.
Okay.
No.
We are not doing this here.
Not by the avocados.
I toss the salad into the cart like it’s a weapon.
Fruit.
Snacks.
“I survived a storm” food.
Cocoa mix, because I’m not made of stone.
Then my phone buzzes again.
I check it.
Rosie.
Rosie: You have to TALK to him.
I glare at my screen.
Me: I am talking to lettuce right now. Isn’t that enough?
Rosie: No.
Rosie: Lettuce will not solve your love life.
Rosie: Unless you marry a salad.
Me: Do not tempt me. Salads are predictable.
Rosie: Reece.
That one word holds the weight of years of her watching me dodge my own feelings like it’s cardio.
I swallow and type:
Me: I’m at the grocery store.
Me: I’m buying lettuce.
Me: I’m being a responsible citizen.
Rosie: You are hiding behind produce.
Me: I am NOT hiding.
Me: I am… replenishing.
Me: My fridge is empty, and my emotional stability is being held together by coffee.
Rosie: Listen to me.
Rosie: You do not get to kiss a man who has been quietly showing up for you since forever and then disappear into the salad aisle like you’re in witness protection.
I stare at the arugula like it’s going to defend me.
Me: I’m not disappearing.
Me: I’m just… taking a beat.
Rosie: No.
Rosie: You’re taking a cowardly little nap inside your own fear.
Rosie: I love you, but I’m not letting you do that.
My throat tightens.
Me: I don’t know what to say to him.
Rosie: Start with the truth.
Rosie: “Hi.”
Rosie: Then maybe: “I didn’t regret it.”
Rosie: Then maybe: “I’m scared.”
Rosie: Normal human sentences, babe. You’re not filing taxes.
Me: I hate you.
Rosie: No you don’t.
Rosie: Finish shopping. Go home. Eat something.
Rosie: And if you get a text from him? You respond like you’re a person and not a spreadsheet with feelings.
Me: That’s rude.
Rosie: It’s accurate.
Rosie: Also I expect a full report later.
Me: You always do.
Rosie: Because I care.
Rosie: Now go. Before your lettuce wilts from your emotional turmoil.
I snort despite myself, but my cart is now blocking the aisle, and a woman with a toddler is staring at me like I’m the villain in her day.
I shove the phone in my pocket and keep shopping like I am not being actively bullied into personal growth by my best friend.
By the time I’m done, my cart is full, and my brain is not calmer, which feels unfair.
I pay. I bag everything. I push the cart out into the cold.