Chapter 3 #3
She wanted to believe it. On paper, Juliana read like someone who'd optimized the joy out of her own life—but that Rothko paragraph was a crack in the spreadsheet. Forty minutes of tears she couldn't explain. That was someone who still let the world in, even if she scheduled when.
There had to be warmth underneath the macro tracking and the 4:45 AM wake-ups.
She meant it. Grant wanted sanctuary. Juliana could give him that.
Probably.
Grant looked at the closed folder. "We'll see."
"I'm going to the ladies' room," Emmy said, standing up. She needed a moment. He was being too agreeable, and it was making her nervous. "Just... think about what I said. About having someone who sees you, not the jersey."
The bathroom at the bistro was nicer than Emmy's apartment. Cloth towels, fresh orchids, gold fixtures.
And a woman crying near the sinks.
Early twenties, maybe. Frantic expression, server's apron, mascara migrating south despite heroic efforts with a paper towel. The tears were winning.
Emmy stopped. Her hand was already on the door handle to leave. She could walk away. She should walk away. She had a celebrity client waiting at the table and a career to salvage.
West, don't say it, she thought, imagining her brother's voice. Don't you dare say 'Emmy to the rescue.'
She sighed. She opened her purse.
"Here," Emmy said, stepping up to the sinks. She pulled out a packet of blotting papers and a tube of high-end concealer—her emergency kit from her wedding planning days. "Dabbing, not wiping. Wiping makes it red."
The girl hiccuped, looking at Emmy with wide, watery eyes. "I look like a raccoon. I have a four-top of finance bros waiting for appetizers and I look like a raccoon."
"You look human," Emmy corrected. She handed over the concealer. Red-rimmed eyes, but the makeup was intact underneath—the crying was recent. Phone clutched in one hand. Server's apron but no food stains, so she'd been in here, not on the floor. Personal, not professional. "Boy trouble?"
The girl let out a wet laugh. She pulled a phone from her apron pocket. "He broke up with me via text. While I'm at work."
She shoved the screen at Emmy.
Hey so I don't think this is working. You're sweet but I need someone more on my level? Like intellectually? You're great at what you do but I need someone who gets the bigger picture. No hard feelings.
Emmy read the text once. Twice. Her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
"Oh no he didn't." Emmy looked up at Harper, outrage flaring hot in her chest. "Intellectually? He thinks he's—" She stopped herself, took a breath. "Okay. Deep breaths. Tell me about this guy."
"He's a crypto day trader," Harper said miserably, dabbing at her eyes with the concealer-smudged paper towel. "He lives with three roommates in Allston and eats ramen for dinner so he can 'invest in the dip.'"
"He said you're not on his level intellectually?"
"He has a vision board, okay?" Harper sniffed.
"It's all Lamborghinis and models in bikinis.
He calls it his 'manifestation station.' He watches YouTube videos about 'the grindset' at 2 AM on full volume.
But he talks about cryptocurrency like he's solving world hunger, so I thought—" Her voice cracked. "I don't know what I thought."
"Why does this always happen to me? Last year it was Christian the 'entrepreneur'—he was selling energy drinks out of his trunk. Before that, Tyler the 'visionary'—he lived in his mom's basement and was writing a screenplay about himself."
"How long did you date Tyler?"
"Six months." Harper looked miserable. "I kept thinking he'd finish the script and things would take off. That I just needed to believe in him. He was on page twelve after eight months. Apparently his origin story was 'really nuanced.'"
Something cracked open in Emmy's chest. She knew this girl. She was this girl, three years and one expensive lesson ago.
"Okay, so." Emmy leaned against the sink, her professional persona dropping away. "When I was twenty-two, I dated this guy—Owen. He was getting his MFA in poetry. Very serious, very tortured artist. He told me I was 'refreshingly literal-minded' because I worked in marketing."
Harper's eyes widened. "What did you do?"
"I stayed with him for eight months." Emmy shook her head. "Eight months of going to open mics where he'd read poems about the 'commodification of the human soul' and I'd sit there thinking 'maybe I'm just not intellectual enough to understand why he never pays for dinner.'"
The parallel sat in her chest like a splinter she'd thought she'd already pulled out.
Eight months. Harper's six months with Tyler.
Both of them, sitting in the audience of men who performed ambition while they worked double shifts and covered the electric bill.
Emmy was very good at diagnosing this pattern in other women.
Less good at explaining why she'd needed eight months and an unpaid electric bill to diagnose it in herself.
Harper let out a wet laugh. "What finally made you leave?"
"He said my advice column was 'contributing to the decline of authentic human connection.
'" Emmy made air quotes with enough aggression to wound.
"This from a man whose longest relationship was with a thrift store typewriter he'd named Hemingway. I was helping people solve actual problems, and he called it inauthentic—then asked if I could cover his half of the rent.”
"That's exactly—" Harper's breath caught. "That's exactly what this feels like."
"Here's what I learned," Emmy said. "Guys like that? They need you to be smaller so they can feel bigger. They find smart, competent women and then spend all their energy convincing you you're not good enough. Because if you ever looked down and saw the league difference, you'd be gone."
Harper stared at her. "That's... terrifyingly accurate."
"You don't have an ambition problem, Harper. You have a 'potential' problem. You see a guy with a vision board and think 'driven.' But driven people actually drive. They don't just narrate the journey from the couch while you work double shifts."
"I just—" Harper's voice was small. "I just wanted to believe in someone, you know? To be part of something bigger."
"I know," Emmy said softly. She did. She understood the architecture of that impulse better than she wanted to admit.
Emmy reached into her bag and pulled out her Elite Connections card.
"I work in matchmaking. Real matchmaking, not the apps," Emmy said, tucking the card into Harper's apron.
"I can help you fix this. Come by the coffee shop on the corner of Tremont, Monday at ten.
We're going to recalibrate that radar of yours.
No more crypto bros. No more guys who use the word 'female' as a noun. "
Harper looked at the card, then at Emmy. "You want me to hire you? I make tips, I can't afford—"
"Pro bono," Emmy said firmly. "Call it a scholarship. We're going to raise those standards and find someone who actually deserves you."
Harper turned the card over in her fingers. "Why would you help me for free?"
"Because I'm very good at seeing what people need," Emmy said, checking her own lipstick in the mirror. "And you, Harper, need to stop dating men who think reading Rich Dad Poor Dad counts as financial literacy. Now go serve the finance bros. And charge them for extra bread."
Harper let out a shaky breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded. "Okay. Thank you. Seriously."
"Ten AM," Emmy called as Harper pushed out the door.
Emmy waited a beat. She caught her own reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, eyes lit up like she'd just closed a deal. She was good at this. She was great at this.
She smoothed her skirt and walked out like she owned the building.
When Emmy slid back into the booth, Grant was watching her.
He'd picked up his water glass but set it back down without drinking, his eyes tracking her face.
"You did something," he said.
Emmy picked up her menu. "I went to the bathroom."
Grant's eyes narrowed, cataloguing. "Your cheeks are flushed. Your eyes are brighter. And you're walking like you just won the lottery." He tilted his head. "If it was anyone else, I'd say you just did a little pick-me-up in the bathroom. But that's not you." A pause. "So where are they?"
Emmy blinked. "Where's who?"
"The stray you just invited to sleep on your couch until they get back on their feet."
Emmy flushed. "Sir Heathcliff was a distinguished gentleman."
"Sir Heathcliff was a three-legged cat with rage issues who lived under your porch."
"He was adjusting to trauma!"
"Em, he peed on every pair of shoes you owned for six months. Your mom threatened to move to a hotel. I still have a scar on my ankle from when I tried to feed him."
"He eventually became very affectionate," Emmy insisted, though she knew her defense was weak. Sir Heathcliff had, in fact, been a menace to society. But he'd had nobody else.
"To you," Grant corrected. "He drew blood from everyone else." He sighed, shaking his head. "Who was it this time? Please tell me you didn't adopt a raccoon from the alley."
"It was a server. Her boyfriend broke up with her via text because she wasn't 'grinding' enough." Emmy rolled her eyes. "He's a crypto bro with a vision board."
Grant groaned. "And let me guess. You offered to fix her life."
"I gave her my card. She needs guidance, Grant. She's dating men who think competence is a threat."
"Em." The teasing was gone. Grant leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You are barely keeping your head above water with Cecelia. You're betting your entire career on me—a guy who actively doesn't want to be there. And now you're taking on charity cases in bathrooms?"
"She's not a charity case. She's a project."
"You can't save everyone."
Emmy stiffened. Her hand found her water glass—gripped it, released it. She saw the concern in his eyes, the set of his jaw that meant he was going to keep pushing.
He didn't see that she wasn't just soft. She was skilled.
"I'm not trying to save everyone," Emmy said, her voice steady. "Just the ones who need it. Besides, I can multitask."
Grant was quiet. The corner of his mouth tightened, like he was deciding whether to say the next thing.
"What happened to that girl you used to hang out with?" he asked. "The one with the nose ring. You two were always at that coffee shop in Allston."
Emmy blinked at the shift. "Zarina? She moved to California two years ago. Why?"
"You need friends, Em. Real ones. Not projects.
" He pointed a fry at her—the same gesture he'd used for "uncultured swine," but the voice was different now.
"This server you just met—you're helping her because you're good at it.
But maybe she could also just be... someone you grab coffee with.
Someone who isn't West or me or a networking contact. "
Something twisted in her chest. When had she last had a friend who wasn't related to work? Someone she called just to talk, not because she needed something or they needed something?
"I have friends," she said, but it sounded defensive even to her own ears.
"You have colleagues. You have family. You have me because I come with West." Grant leaned forward. "I'm just saying—don't turn everyone into a project. Sometimes people are just... people."
He wasn't wrong. Somewhere between the six months of unemployment and the desperate scramble to prove she belonged at Elite Connections, she'd let the friendships quietly flatline. Mika in California. Sarah who got married and had a baby. Rachel who she kept meaning to text back but never did.
"Okay," Emmy said quietly. "I'll try."
Grant nodded, satisfied. "Good."
They walked out of the bistro ten minutes later. The September air had a bite to it, crisp and clean.
She put her hand on his arm, a professional touch—brief, deliberate—meant to convey confidence. Except the muscle under her palm wasn't a client's muscle. It was Grant's. And it tensed under her fingers.
Her hand stayed a beat longer than the gesture required.
"I really think you'll like her," she said, pulling her hand back and tucking it into her jacket pocket like it needed somewhere safe to go.
"I'm sure," Grant said, that same smooth evasion.
"I mean it." Emmy's voice softened. "You deserve someone who makes your life easier, not harder. Someone you can actually relax with. That's what I'm looking for. Not just anyone—the right one."
Grant looked down at her. He had his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. The sun caught the edge of his jaw, and for a second—just a second—something pulled tight behind her ribs. A pang. Sharp, specific, and gone before she could turn and look at it straight.
He really was a great guy. He deserved someone great.
"I'll text you after," Grant said quietly.
"Good. I'll be waiting." She smiled. "I really think this could be something, Grant."
Grant gave her the crooked smile—the real one, not the fan one—and turned toward his car.
Emmy turned the other way, heading for the T station. The afternoon sun was warm, but the wind off the harbor carried autumn in it, sharp and clean.
She passed a glass-fronted gym on the corner. A couple walked out the front door in matching athletic gear, sharing a water bottle and laughing about something. Sleek. Focused. A winning team.
Her brain supplied the image unbidden: Grant and Juliana, post-marathon, sharing a protein shake and comparing mile splits.
It made sense on paper. It was logical. It should work.
Her heels clicked faster on the pavement.
Tomorrow, she had her meeting with Harper. Soon, Grant would go on his date. Emmy Woodhouse was going to prove to Cecelia, to Sabine, and to everyone watching that she wasn't just a girl who brought home stray cats.
She was a professional. And she was going to win.