Page 29

Matt looks like a man who just lost a duel to his own optimism.

He’s slouched on the edge of the studio couch, fingers laced like a prayer he doesn’t believe in anymore.

“She’s not answering my texts,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “That could mean a lot of things. Maybe she’s busy. Maybe she’s reflecting. Maybe her phone is in a river because you said ‘I’m holding space for your journey’ while she was crying.”

He flinches. A little.

“I messed it up,” he admits. “And I don’t just mean the conversation. I mean... the whole thing. From the start.”

Now that’s rare. Most guys, even post-breakup, are still looking for a way to win. Still trying to spin the story so they don’t come off like the villain—or worse, the loser.

But Matt?

Matt looks like he doesn’t care how it looks. Only that it’s gone.

“I keep replaying the way she looked at me,” he says quietly. “Like I was a script she already knew the ending to.”

I feel that one.

Deep in the ribs.

And instinctively, my response kicks in. The usual speech.

“Matt,” I say, leaning back, “you’re young, you’re decent-looking, you’ve done the work. There are hundreds of Rachels out there. Thousands. You can walk into Erewhon tomorrow and accidentally fall in love over raw honey. ”

He doesn’t laugh.

He just looks at me, eyes steady.

“I don’t want another Rachel,” he says. “I want her.”

I freeze.

He means it. Not like a guy clinging to scarcity, but like someone who’s seen the real thing and knows he’s not going to get that twice by accident.

“Look,” he adds, “I know you probably think this is weak. Or codependent. Or whatever word you use when someone actually cares.”

That stings more than I want to admit.

I stand. Walk to the window like that’ll help me outrun the part of myself that does think those things—until recently.

“You love her?” I ask, without looking.

He hesitates. “I think I could. If she let me try again.”

That’s enough.

I turn back around. “Alright.”

Matt blinks. “Alright?”

“You want her back? We’ll get her back. If you agree to document everything and let me turn it into a case study.”

“You really think I can?”

I give him a long look. “I think heartbreak’s inevitable. Might as well make it content.”

His smile wobbles. “That’s bleak.”

I nod. “But on-brand.”

He gives a wary chuckle. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” I say. “Think about it: one guy, one mission, one shot at real love. The raw footage alone is a case study. We build a whole series—coaching, accountability, live check-ins. Call it The Ex Files . ”

Matt blinks again, slower this time. “You want to turn my emotional spiral into a marketing asset.”

I spread my hands. “Matt, your spiral has structure. Stakes. A growth arc. And a chance at a satisfying third act. That’s practically a sales page in human form.”

He stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether to be insulted or flattered.

I add, more gently, “And hey—if she says yes, you don’t just get the girl. You become the testimonial.”

Finally, a real smile. “This is either genius or wildly unethical.”

I grin. “Why not both?”

***

The second Matt leaves, the room deflates.

Not just from his puppy-dog sincerity or the smell of stress sweat he insists is pheromonal—but from the part of me that was pretending this wasn’t a terrible idea.

The door clicks shut behind him and I finally let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding, which, ironically, is something I mock people for saying.

I rake a hand through my hair and head for the bar cart. Something about coaching other people through their emotional disasters always makes me want whiskey. Coaching a guy like Matt through one? I need a fucking sedative.

The ice cubes clink like they’re judging me. I swirl the glass, take a sip, and stare at the whiteboard where “TRUST = TENSION + PRESENCE” still sits half-erased like a ghost of confidence past.

I shouldn’t have said yes .

I know that. Helping Matt win Rachel back? That’s not coaching. That’s a romcom side quest. With feelings. And the worst part is—it actually matters to him. I saw it. That stupid, hopeful look. Like love’s a group project and I just agreed to do the PowerPoint.

Jesus.

I pace, the way I do when my brain starts looking for exits. There’s gotta be someone else. Someone we can loop in who still has pull with Rachel.

Not his friends—they think she’s out of his league.

Not his exes—wrong type of testimonial.

Not his mom—although honestly, she’d probably land better.

I pause mid-step.

Emily.

Nope. Nope. Next.

I take another sip. Start pacing again.

Emily fucking Parrish.

I try a few more mental gymnastics—somebody from the podcast team? Rachel’s co-worker? A well-placed meme campaign? But it’s like trying to convince yourself you're not hungry when you can smell bacon.

It always comes back to her.

Of course it does. Because even when she’s wrong, she’s persuasive.

And even when she’s playing dirty, she’s clean-cut enough that people cheer.

Rachel trusts her. The audience loves her.

And worst of all—she gets it. The performance of love.

The way sincerity sells. The way stories shape decisions more than facts ever could.

I sit down hard on the edge of the desk and glare at nothing. My drink sweats onto my hand. I should be furious about this. About the fact that I need her now. That the same woman who clipped me into oblivion on her little feminist fireside chat is now the key to my student’s redemption arc.

But I’m not furious.

I’m...fine. Annoyed, sure. But that anger I had two days ago? That screen-punching rage? Gone.

I got my licks in. Dropped a few bombs of my own. Watched her flinch when I called her predictable. A few thousand new followers, some well-placed smirks. Call it even.

Now it’s not personal.

It’s tactical.

Rachel trusts her. That’s leverage.

If I spin this right, it won’t even look like I’m crawling back. It'll look like I’m offering an olive branch. Facilitating closure. Being the bigger man. Growth-oriented. Mature.

Ugh.

This is worse than crawling. This is rebranding .

But it could work.

And if I line up the optics right—some go-between, a few staged touchpoints—it won’t even look like it’s about me. It’ll look like I’m empowering women to collaborate. Maybe I throw in a comment about mutual respect. A wink to our “shared mission.”

God, I hate how good I am at this.

I down the rest of my drink and set the glass aside.

There’s a knock at the edge of my conscience. The part of me that remembers who she is—not just the marketing asset, but the woman who made me actually enjoy losing an argument. The one whose laugh makes people forget their point. The one who looked at me, once, like I wasn’t a bit.

She’s dangerous.

And annoyingly useful.

I lean back in the chair, arms behind my head, eyes on the ceiling like maybe I’ll find a better idea in the drywall.

But there it is again.

Emily. Damn. Parrish.

The name tastes like pride and mouthwash.

The podcast stunt still pisses me off—don’t get me wrong. That whole “guess who’s a manipulative piece of hot trash” segment? Weaponized charisma at its most smug. But somewhere between the outrage and the editing notes, I found myself impressed.

Guess humiliation is a great audition.

And if I’m being honest—something I avoid unless cornered or on camera—I’ve been waiting to see what she does next. Waiting for her to pull a punch or double down. To pivot or spiral.

She didn’t.

She recalibrated.

She’s like me. Just younger. Prettier. And perhaps better at making people cry in under ten minutes.

I grab my phone. Scroll past the unopened texts from Tyler, the bookmarked thirst comments, the saved video of her eyebrow twitching at me like it wanted to unionize.

Then I pause.

I’m not asking Emily for help. That would imply weakness. This is a favor. For Matt. Via a third party. It’s not a retreat. It’s a delegation .

I scrubbed a hand down my face and let out a sigh that feels like a tax write-off. Then I tap my screen.

“Jessie,” I say when her face appears, framed by curtain bangs and chaos.

She’s eating something aggressively crunchy.

“Let me guess,” she says, chewing. “Another breakthrough that requires emotional labor you’re not equipped to handle?”

“Close,” I mutter. “I need Emily.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Okay, do you want her forgiveness, her endorsement, or her password to feminism? Because I feel like that’s three separate battle plans.”

I stand, pacing across the studio. My voice drops into the register I reserve for clients and damage control.

“I need her help with Matt and Rachel. Real help. Like—therapeutic mind games but make it matchmaker.”

Jessie blinks. “You mean... like a crossover episode?”

I turn. “A collab.”

“Wow,” she says slowly. “You really want Rachel and Matt to work.”

“It’s not just about them. Rachel’s the one that got away. If we help them fix it, it’s a proof point. For both of us. And the audience already thinks Emily and I have chemistry.”

“Sexual tension is not a business model.”

“It is if you don’t flinch,” I shoot back.

Jessie narrows her eyes. “So you want me to pitch the idea to Emily, even though you just ambushed her on her podcast and humiliated her in front of an audience of brunch feminists.”

“I wouldn’t say ambushed—”

“You called in mid-episode and exposed her date for quoting your advice like it was scripture.”

“Okay, fine. Yes. I humiliated her. But the metrics—”

“Don’t,” Jessie says. “Don’t lead with metrics.”

I sit down, suddenly tired. “I can’t talk to her myself. She doesn’t trust me. And frankly, she shouldn’t. So I need to offer her something she can’t get anywhere else.”

“A public apology? A full retraction? A tasteful suicide?” Jessie deadpans.

“A narrative,” I say. “Closure. Triumph. A redemptive arc for her client that makes her look like a coaching goddess. We fix Rachel and Matt—together—and Emily gets to say her methods worked.”

Jessie tilts her head. “You’re not wrong. But she’s going to see through it.”

“Which is why you ask her.”

She arches her brow. “You want me to play go-between?”

“You already are,” I say. “You’re the only person who knows both sides. She trusts you.”

“She used to. Until I started working for the man who weaponizes eye contact.”

I run a hand through my hair. “Tell her it’s for the brand. For the clients. For her audience. Hell, tell her Matt’s hopeless without her. All of those things are true.”

Jessie leans back in her chair. “So you want me to text her like ‘Hey girl, want to emotionally rehabilitate two attractive clients and film the redemption arc?’”

“Make it sound strategic. Use words like ‘synergy’ and ‘pilot concept.’ Mention data. She’s soft for data.”

“You’re soft for her. ”

I don’t flinch. Don’t blink.

Just say, “That memo stays off the record.”

Jessie smirks.

For a second, neither of us speaks. I can hear my own heartbeat and the faint sound of Jessie opening another snack.

Finally, she says, “Okay. I’ll float the idea.”

I nod. “Carefully. Make it sound like it came from you.”

“And if she says no?”

“Then I find another way to fix it,” I say.

“But not as good.”

I don’t answer.

Jessie gives me a long look. “You realize, if this works, she’s going to be part of your life for more than a week.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Yeah,” Jessie mutters, pulling up her Messages app. “That’s the part that’s going to get you in trouble.”

I don’t argue. Just watch Jessie type.

This is a strategic play—nothing more.

Emily needs the win as much as I do.

So if I can use her without hurting her?

Technically, that is generosity.