Chapter 3
ARCHIE
Iwas only going to watch one video.
It’s now two in the morning, and I’m sitting in my dark apartment with my laptop balanced on my chest, the glow of Tessa’s face the only light in the room. She’s talking about first date red flags, her hands moving expressively, those pink nails catching the light from her ring light setup.
I’ve been at this for hours.
It started innocently enough. I figured I should know who I was dealing with. Due diligence. So I used her phone number to run the kind of background check I’d run on someone I needed to know more about. To say I was surprised by what I found would be an understatement.
Except background checks don’t usually involve watching someone’s entire YouTube catalog while your throat tightens every time she laughs.
I click on the next video, which was posted eight months ago. “Why I’m Still Single.” Tessa’s sitting in her home office, in front of a pink wall, and her energy is quieter than in her other videos.
“I get this question a lot,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“People assume that because I do this, I must have it figured out for myself. Like I’ve got some secret formula I’m keeping from everyone.
” She laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“The truth is, I’m single because I haven’t found someone who wants all of me.
Not the Curvy Cupid you see, but the real, messy version of me. All of me.”
My hand rubs the back of my neck. I suddenly realized I’m invested in what she has to say, like I have real stakes in the matter.
“I’ve been told I’m too much,” she continues. “Too loud. Too ambitious. Too successful. Too big.” She makes air quotes around each word, then looks down at her body.
How the hell could any man not fucking love her body? Her body would make a pinup model weep.
“And for a long time, I believed them. I learned to shrink and take up less space. To laugh quieter and pretend that being someone’s backup plan was the same as being chosen.”
My jaw clenches.
“But here’s what I’ve learned.” She leans toward the camera, and even through the screen, I feel the intensity of her gaze.
“The right person won’t ask you to be less.
They’ll look at everything you are and think, finally.
They’ll want the loud laugh and the big dreams and the woman who takes up space unapologetically.
They’ll be excited by my successes and build me up to earn more success.
And until I find that person, I’d rather be single than shrink myself into someone else’s comfort zone. ”
I stare at the screen long after the video ends. In a flash, I know: I want to be the man who does that for her.
She’s brilliant and beautiful and funny and kind, and she shares her whole heart with strangers on the internet because she genuinely wants to help people find what she hasn’t found herself.
What is wrong with every single one of the men she’s dated?
I think about the men she’s mentioned in passing—the one who said she was “too intimidating,” the ones who ghosted after three dates or six months, the one who told her she’d be prettier if she smiled more.
I want to find each of them and explain, in detail, exactly how wrong they were… and maybe punch them in the face.
I click on another video. Then another. I read her Substack archives—posts about past Valentine’s Days spent alone, about the gap between helping others find love and not finding it herself.
I learn that she takes her coffee with whole milk and two sugars.
That she believes in love at first sight, even though she tells her followers it’s statistically unlikely.
That when she needs to clear her head, she goes to the Lock & Key bridge and leaves her phone behind so she can be present.
No one’s ever given her that.
By 3 AM., I know her fears, her hopes. I know the name of her childhood dog and her complicated relationship with her mother. I know she cries at the end of Pride and Prejudice every single time.
I’m in serious trouble.
The next morning, I’m useless.
I rolled into the Watchtower on four hours of sleep and three cups of coffee. None of it’s helping. The Mercer file sits open on my desk, untouched. Security protocols. I honestly do not give a fuck about security protocols right now.
I keep seeing her—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the vulnerability in her voice when she told her own stories.
Whittaker finds me at my desk, staring at my laptop screen where Tessa’s latest Instagram reel is playing on mute.
Through the glass walls of the ops floor, half of Heartline could walk by and see exactly what I’m watching.
She’s doing some kind of dating advice skit, playing both the “good date” and “bad date” versions of herself, and even without sound, her comedic timing is perfect.
“Archie.”
I don’t hear him.
“Archie.”
Still nothing.
“Bro, what the actual fuck? You jerking off at work?”
I slam my laptop shut so hard the sound echoes through the ops floor. Whittaker is standing three feet away, coffee in hand, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.
“It’s research,” I say.
“Research.” He draws the word out, unconvinced. “Research for what?”
Silence.
His eyes widen. “Holy shit. You like her.”
“I don’t—it’s not—” I rub the back of my neck, the gesture giving me away. The muscle is already sore from last night. “There’s this thing. My sister’s gala. I needed a date.”
“And you’re researching your date by watching her Instagram reels on a Tuesday morning when you should be working?” Whittaker sets his coffee down and pulls up a chair like he’s settling in for a show. “Start from the beginning. Who is she?”
I weigh my options. Whittaker has been my partner on enough jobs to know when I’m deflecting. He’s also a good friend, which means he won’t let this go.
“Her name’s Tessa. She runs a dating advice platform. Curvy Cupid.”
“Wait.” Whittaker holds up a hand. “Curvy Cupid? The Instagram account my ex used to follow? The one with the—” He makes a vague, curvy gesture that makes me want to hit him. “Her?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Point out that you’re watching relationship advice content made by a woman you’re clearly obsessed with?” He grins. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“It’s fake,” I say, though the word tastes wrong. “She’s helping me avoid my sister’s matchmaking.”
“Uh huh.” Whittaker nods slowly. “And all this research?” He lifts his hands to make air quotes as he says the word research, and I have to count to ten not to take the bait.
I don’t answer, just stare him down.
“That’s what I thought.” He stands, retrieving his coffee. “For what it’s worth? You look happy. Haven’t seen that in a while.”
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me alone with the Mercer file I still haven’t touched.
I open my laptop again. Tessa’s face fills the screen, frozen mid-laugh, those pink nails visible at the edge of the frame where she’s gesturing.
The most incredible woman I’ve ever encountered, and I have to pretend I don’t know anything about her.
I push back from my desk and head for the stairwell.
Up on the roof, the cold air hits my face, and I lean against the railing, trying to clear my head.
The city spreads out below—traffic crawling along the waterfront, joggers on the river walk, and farther out, the lock-covered bridge catching the morning light.
I stare at it for a long moment without knowing why, then pull out my phone.
Margie.
Drinks tonight? The Velvet Arrow at 7? I need all the Tessa details!!
I stare at the message. Three exclamation points again. At least up here, she can’t see or hear me groan.
Fine.
Margie’s already at a corner table when I arrive—tucked into the dim, candlelit back of the Velvet Arrow, two drinks waiting on the table.
The same woman from behind the bar the other night gives me a nod as I pass.
Margie is practically vibrating with energy, which means I’m about to be interrogated.
“Okay.” She leans forward before I even sit down. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” I slide into the chair and reach for my drink.
“Archibald Michael Pierce. You have a girlfriend. A gorgeous, funny, clearly-way-too-good-for-you girlfriend. There is so much you need to tell me.”
I take a long drink to buy myself time. The problem with lying to Margie is that she knows me too well. She was there when Rachael left—not just left but cleaned out the apartment while I was out of town on a Heartline assignment. Took everything that mattered and didn’t even leave a note.
Margie was the one who called me after hearing through the grapevine that Rachael moved in with someone new.
She was the one who packed up what Rachael left behind and put it in storage so I wouldn’t have to see it.
She watched me shut down after that. Watched me take every assignment I could get and volunteer for jobs no one else wanted so I could stay away from home and anything that looked like an emotional connection.
She’s been waiting for years for me to come back to life.
And now she thinks Tessa is the reason.
She’s not wrong, but she’s working with incomplete information.
“How long have you two been together?” Margie presses. “What’s her favorite restaurant? Have you met her friends? Does she know about the—”
“Margie.” I set my drink down. “Lay off.”
“I’m your sister. I’m constitutionally incapable of laying off.” But she softens, reading the tension in my jaw. “I just want you to be happy, Archie. And she seems... I don’t know. Different from the other women you’ve dated.”
Special. She has no idea.
“I Googled her after we met.” Margie’s eyes light up.
“Archie. She’s Curvy Cupid. Do you understand?
I’ve been following her Substack for months.
The stuff she writes about being ‘too much,’ about finding someone who wants all of you—” She presses a hand to her heart.
“If anyone can get through that thick shell of yours, it’s her. ”
I don’t say anything, and I know if I tell my sister that Tessa has already done just that? Sweet mercy, I don’t want to know.
“What was your first date like?” Margie continues.
“Where did you take her? Please tell me you didn’t take her somewhere boring.
She deserves somewhere special. She wrote this whole post once about how women can tell when a man puts thought into a date versus just picking the first restaurant that comes up on Google—”
“I’ve read it,” I say without thinking.
Margie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve read her stuff?”
Shit.
“Some of it.” I reach for my drink again, avoiding her eyes. “When I was getting to know her.”
“Oh, my god.” Margie’s grin is enormous. “You really like her. Like, really like her. You never research anyone. You barely Google people before you work with them. I didn’t know you even knew what Substack was.”
“Drop it.”
“Never.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my arm. “I’m happy for you, Archie. You deserve this. Just don’t screw it up, okay? She’s special.”
I think about Tessa’s video. About the vulnerability she shares with thousands of strangers that she doesn’t know I’ve seen.
Margie’s going to ambush her the first chance she gets.
She’s going to ask about our first date, our anniversary, our future plans.
And Tessa’s going to have to improvise answers while I stand there knowing her deepest fears.
Knowing exactly how much it hurts her when men make her feel like she’s not enough.
My hand finds the back of my neck again. I need to protect her. From the awkwardness, the lies, from any situation where she might feel exposed. I need to make sure she never has that look in her eyes—the one from the video, the one that says I’m waiting for you to leave too.
“I won’t,” I tell my sister. “Screw it up.”
I hope to God that’s a promise I can keep.