Chapter 20 #2
Rosie pulled her legs up, turned to face me. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers twisting together then smoothing across her dress.
I had to ask. Whatever this was, I needed to know.
But the way she looked at me, like she was bracing for impact, made my chest tighten. Made my throat feel too small. Whatever she was about to say, it would change things.
“So.” The word came out rough. I cleared my throat, tried again. “What's going on?”
She took a shaky breath. “I got a call a few days ago.”
The way she said it, like she was confessing something, made my stomach drop.
“From who?”
“Lauren Riley.” Rosie's voice was careful, measured. “She was my boss when I worked for the Seattle music festival. Four years ago, before I took the corporate job.”
I nodded, trying to place the name. Rosie had mentioned loving creative work before her soul-crushing corporate job. One of the few times her face had lit up talking about Seattle.
“She's leaving the festival,” Rosie continued, still not meeting my eyes. “Got offered some big promotion with a company in Portland. Corporate events, higher pay, that whole thing.”
My chest felt tight, like I couldn't get enough air. I knew where this was heading, but I waited. Let her tell it.
“Lauren said she recommended me to the hiring committee.” The words came out in a rush. “Said I'd be the perfect fit to take over her job. Art Director. Everything I used to do when I worked for her, but now it would be my department.”
I thought about Rosie's notebook, the detailed business plans and logo designs. The way her whole face changed when she talked about branding, about visual storytelling.
“It's what I always wanted. Before Aaron convinced me I should want something more... practical.” She finally looked at me, eyes bright with unshed tears. “It's everything I thought I'd never get another chance at.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken implications.
I stared at my hands, trying to process what she was telling me. This wasn't just any job offer—this was the job offer. The one that could give her back the career her ex had convinced her to abandon.
“That's...” I cleared my throat. “That's incredible, Rosie. Congratulations.”
The word felt like swallowing glass. Every instinct screamed to ask her to stay, to tell her what she meant to me, to fight for this thing between us. But watching her face—torn between excitement and guilt—I knew she needed my support, not my desperation.
“Don't congratulate me yet.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I haven't decided anything.”
She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them like she was trying to hold herself together. “I have until the end of the week to give them an answer.”
End of the week.
“What do you think I should do?”
The question hung in the air between us.
I can't choose for her.
I'd watched my parents make decisions for me my whole life, pushing me toward what they thought was best, what made sense on paper. I wouldn't do that to her. Not to Rosie, who'd already spent three years letting someone else decide who she should be.
Her eyes searched my face, desperate and pleading, looking for something I couldn't give her. An answer. Permission. Maybe even a reason to stay that would make the choice easier.
I leaned back against the couch cushions, putting distance between us without moving away. “That's not my call to make.”
“I'm not asking you to make it for me. I'm asking what you think.”
“Those are the same thing.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “No they're not.”
“Rosie.” I kept my voice gentle but firm. “This is your decision. Your life. Your career.”
“I know that.” Frustration crept into her tone. “But you're part of my life now. Your opinion matters to me.”
Everything in me wanted to tell her to stay.
Wanted to list every reason why the farm was perfect for her, why we were perfect together.
How she'd transformed in the weeks since taking over from Walt—more confident, more herself.
How she lit up when she talked about the goats, about the farmers market, about building something that was hers.
But that would make me just like Aaron. Telling her what she should want instead of letting her figure it out herself.
“My opinion would be biased.”
“Of course it would be biased. That's why I want to hear it.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. What was I supposed to say? That I wanted her to stay so badly it felt like drowning? That the thought of her leaving made my chest feel like it was caving in?
“I can't—” I stopped, running a hand through my hair. “I won't do that to you.”
“Do what?”
“Tell you how to live your life.”
“I'm not asking you to tell me how to live my life.”
“Yes, you are.” The words came out sharp. “Maybe not directly, but—”
“Cal, I just want to know what you think.”
“Your ex had thoughts about your career, too.”
Rosie's face went pale. “That's not the same thing.”
“Isn't it?” I knew I was fumbling this, saying it all wrong, but I couldn't stop. “He convinced you to give up what you loved. Now you're asking me to weigh in on whether you should take it back.”
“Aaron told me what was best for me. You're—” She stood up abruptly, pacing to the window. “I'm asking for your opinion because I trust you. Because I care what you think.”
“And what if what I think is wrong for you?”
“That's not—” She stopped, shaking her head. “You're not... God, you're not even listening to me.”
“I am listening.”
“No.” She turned back toward me, arms wrapping around herself. “No, you're not. You're just— You're shutting me out. Just like he did.”
Something cold twisted in my stomach. “I'm nothing like Aaron.”
“Aren't you?” The words came out too loud, then she seemed to catch herself. “I mean— He made me feel small by telling me what I should want all the time. And now you're making me feel small by refusing to tell me anything at all.”
“That's not—” I started, then stopped. Ran a hand over my face. “It's not the same thing.”
“It feels the same.” She stepped closer, and I could see her hands shaking slightly. “It feels like I'm completely alone in this decision. Like you don't even care enough to have an opinion about whether I—”
“Of course I care.” I stood up, needing to move, but there wasn't anywhere to go in the small space.
“Then act like it.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “In a healthy relationship, partners are supposed to talk about big decisions. They share their thoughts and their fears and hopes. They don't just shut each other out.”
“I'm trying to protect you.”
“From what? From knowing how you feel?”
I dragged both hands through my hair, frustration building like pressure in my chest. “From making the wrong choice for the wrong reasons.”
“What if knowing your feelings helps me make the right choice?”
“What if it doesn't?”
We stared at each other across the small living room. Pudding whined softly from his spot on the floor, picking up on the tension crackling between us.
Rosie's face crumpled slightly. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Do you even want me to stay?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. My chest felt like it was caving in, ribs pressing against my lungs.
“Do you honestly believe there's any part of me that wants to watch you drive away?”
Her breath caught. The raw honesty in my voice seemed to surprise both of us.
“Cal...”
“I won't tell you what to choose.” The words came out unsteady, like I was fighting for each one. “But I won't pretend I wouldn't feel it if you left. Won't pretend this doesn't matter.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy and loaded. Rosie's eyes searched my face, and I could see the exact moment my words sank in—the way her shoulders dropped, the breath she released like she'd been holding it for days.
I watched her wrap her arms around herself, suddenly looking lost in the middle of my living room. Like she was still waiting for something I couldn't figure out how to give her.
“I think...” She glanced toward the door, then back at me. “I think I need to go home. Think about all of this.”
“I'll walk you out.”
She shook her head quickly. “No, it's okay. I can—”
“Rosie.” I kept my voice gentle. “Let me walk you out.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Pudding followed us to the door, tail wagging uncertainly like he could sense something was wrong. I grabbed Rosie's jacket from the chair where she'd draped it, held it while she slipped her arms through the sleeves.
My hands lingered on her shoulders for just a moment. She leaned back against me, and I felt her shoulders shake with a silent sob.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
“Don't apologize.” I pressed my forehead against the back of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She turned in my arms, looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “This is so hard.”
“I know.”
She rose on her toes, kissed me soft and desperate. I kissed her back, memorizing the taste of her, the way she fit against me.
When we broke apart, she rested her forehead against mine.
“I should go.”
“Drive safe.”
She nodded, stepped back. Opened the door.
“Rosie?”
She paused, hand on the doorframe.
“Whatever you decide—it's the right choice. Because it's yours.”
Fresh tears spilled over. She gave me one last look before walking over to her truck.
I watched her taillights disappear down the dirt road, swallowed by darkness. Pudding pressed against my legs, and I picked him up, buried my face in his soft fur.
“Just us again, buddy.”
He licked my chin, tail wagging despite everything.
Inside, the dinner dishes still waited in the sink. Evidence of what felt like the last normal evening we'd have together.