Chapter 7 Rhea
SEVEN
RHEA
I wasn’t planning on drinking that much.
Two was usually my limit. Three, if the conversation was good and the wine didn’t taste like vinegar.
But tonight, my coworkers keep refilling my glass. And after the week I’ve had—emails, timelines, team meetings, launch planning—I let them.
We are celebrating the grant. My grant. And as the carefully guarded armor of control begins to slip, my inhibitions go straight to him.
Spencer Devereaux.
I try not to think about him.
But apparently, the wine has other ideas.
Somewhere between glass three and Laney texting me a meme about Frenchmen and foreplay, I slip away into the bathroom and into a stall, like I am whispering something top secret.
I open my phone. Scroll to his number—stare at the blank screen for a long moment, and finally begin typing:
Turns out I’m stuck for book recommendations and could use some help.
Then add, before I can stop myself:
What might work best is if you could deliver them in person.
Send.
I wait. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Nothing.
No dots. No reply. No read receipt.
Radio silence.
I tell myself he might already be in France. He mentioned a cycling race—some elite event he was training for. Maybe he’s off-grid. Maybe he’s racing right now. Maybe he dropped his phone into the Seine.
But the excuses wear thin fast.
Which, if I’m honest, confirms every base fear I’ve been working to ignore.
It was nothing more than a one-night stand.
He is out of my league.
And even though that’s all I’d intended it to be, the truth is—I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Not since the moment I’d zipped myself back into that borrowed dress and slipped out of his suite.
In the morning, I find not a text from Spencer but one from my brother, Carter, instead.
Carter and I share a mom, a complicated childhood, and not much else. Different dads. Different last names. About as much in common as a giraffe and a kangaroo
He’s never been supportive of my plans to uproot my life and move to France. Not when I tried to go right after college. And not now.
Then again, Carter has always taken a very linear approach to life.
At sixteen, Princeton was the goal.
Maplewick High wouldn’t cut it, so he moved in with his dad near a prep school in Connecticut.
After that, it was all step-by-step: Princeton. Law school. A safe job in corporate litigation. Move in with Serena, his college girlfriend, live in a townhouse that looks like an upscale catalog exploded.
They’ve been there for three years now. They aren’t married yet.
“We’re waiting for the right time,” as he puts it.
I’ve never been entirely clear on what milestone must be unlocked before an engagement becomes viable.
Partnership?
Property acquisition?
Planetary alignment?
Regardless, he’s never been shy about weighing in on my decisions.
The day I told him I’d declared a double major in literature and French, he looked at me with that mix of amusement and condescension I’d gotten from him through the years.
“Literature and French?” he said. “That’s your plan?”
“Yes,” I replied. “That’s my plan.”
He snorted. “What the hell are you going to do with that? Open a poetry-themed café in Paris?”
“I hadn’t ruled it out.”
“You do realize it’s not 1890 anymore, right? People don’t make a living off quoting Hugo in cafés.”
“Maybe not your people,” I said sweetly. “But some of us value things that don’t come with a bonus structure.”
“Sure,” he said. “Until rent’s due.”
When Mom got sick, Carter was barely around.
He called. He texted. He even sent money to help with expenses, since mom wasn’t able to work and was living under a pile of debt. And I appreciated that, in theory.
But when it came to the day-to-day, he wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there the day I found her collapsed on the bathroom floor, too weak to lift her head.
He wasn’t there for the weekly chemo visits or the nights she screamed from bone pain while I sat on the edge of her bed whispering “it’s okay, it’s okay,” even though it wasn’t.
He wasn’t there when I had to argue with the insurance company to get her the meds that made her sleep through the night without waking up vomiting into a bucket.
He missed all of that.
I recall a specific phone call made in mid-January. Mom had just lost her hair, and I was standing in the kitchen holding a clump of it I’d swept up off the floor. I’d texted Carter.
Call me when you can. You really need to come sooner rather than later.
When he finally called, his voice was rushed. Distracted.
“Look, Ree, I wish I could come, but I’ve only got this one shot at partnership,” he said. “It’s not like I don’t care, but the timing’s just—bad.”
Bad timing.
As if death were supposed to wait for a window in his schedule.
I didn’t argue.
What was the point?
He took my silence as agreement.
And honestly? That call told me everything I needed to know about how we were going to do this. I would be the one here, holding her hand. Carrying the load. Cleaning the messes. Completing hospice forms. Managing pain and bills and grief and casseroles left on the porch.
And he… would keep climbing.
But this time, is going to be different for me.
This time I’m the one committed to taking the straight path—even if my dream isn’t as crystal clear as his has always been.
Once this grant is established—staffed, stabilized, with the right systems in place—I am going to live in France for a year. I’ll offer support remotely if I have to. Write in cafés. Chase stories instead of deadlines.
The timing won’t be easy. I know that. But part of the reason I applied for this grant, was so I could offer the library systems something bigger than myself. And, sure, I’m the grant writer, but I work with an whole team of passionate people.
I’ve spent my whole life shelving plans for everyone else.
But this one? It’s mine.
Whether Carter agrees or not, my intentions are set. And for once, I’m not asking permission.
The house is under contract. Offer pending financing. I’ve booked a tiny villa in Annecy-le-Vieux—the same town Spencer had mentioned, though I hadn’t realized it until I went searching for places and the name jumped out at me.
My villa will be barely big enough to stretch in, but it has a balcony and a window box and a little clawfoot tub. I’m selling off most of my furniture at the garage sale. The rest will go into storage for now.
With my savings and the proceeds of the house sale, I’ll be able to live at least six months without work, longer if I stretch it. But I also have three freelance clients already lined up. Some ghostwriting, some editing. Enough to keep the lights on while I get my bearings.
Things are in motion.
Starting to line up.
Which is why I can’t quite figure out why I’ve had an anxious stomach every day this week.
Today, Becca brought a crockpot into the staff room—a fragrant pot roast - and the second the lid came off, the smell hit me like a wave. Rich. Heavy. Overwhelming.
I barely made it to the bathroom.
As I rinsed my mouth at the sink, I told myself it was stress.
Probably was.
The last few weeks have been nonstop. The grant. The house sale. The details of the move.
But I know it’s more than that.
It’s also fear.
A deep, knotted, buried fear of actually doing this.
Leaving.
Starting over.
Living the life I said I wanted.
Maybe this is my gut saying: Are you serious? Are you ready to do this?
And the answer is: Yes. I am.
I’m damn well committed.
And I won’t let fear—physical, emotional, or otherwise—stall my plans again.
Feel the fear and do it anyway.
That’s what I tell myself, as I rinse my mouth and hold a wet paper towel to my forehead.