Page 7 of The Girlfriend Goal

"So he brought you coffee." Jared was sprawled on my bed, eating my emergency stash of chocolate while I recounted the meeting. "Contributed actual ideas and made you laugh."

"I didn't laugh."

"You just said you smiled."

"For like half a second. It was involuntary." I continued organizing my notes, transferring key points from my laptop to my physical planner.

"This is terrible," Jared announced. "This is a disaster of epic proportions."

"Because he's not a complete waste of space? I'd think you'd be happy I don't have to carry the entire project myself."

"No, because you're starting to see him as a person. Next thing you know, you'll be noticing his eyes or his jawline or those shoulders that could probably bench press me."

"I'm not noticing anything except his surprising competence with youth sports concepts."

"Uh-huh." Jared sat up, fixing me with his most serious expression.

"Rachel, I have known you for years. I've seen you through Brad the Terrible, through Steve the Mansplainer, through that brief dark period with Kyle from the business school who thought nonprofit work was 'cute.

' And you know what all of them had in common? "

"Poor communication skills?"

"They started as projects. Guys you thought you could fix or improve or educate into being worthy of you." He pointed a chocolate-covered finger at me. "Lance Fletcher is not a project. He's a fully formed disaster of a human being who happens to have good ideas about child development."

"I know that."

"Do you though? Because you're color-coding notes about him."

I looked down at my planner where I'd been highlighting meeting notes. Yellow for project ideas, blue for scheduling, and yes, fine, I'd used pink for personal insights he'd shared.

"It's just organization," I said weakly.

"It's the beginning of the end." Jared flopped back dramatically. "I can see it now. First, you'll start thinking he's not that bad. Then you'll notice he's actually kind of sweet with kids. Then bam! You're making out in the library and I'm planning your hockey-themed wedding."

"That will literally never happen."

"You say that now. But I saw the way you described him remembering your coffee order. Your eyes got all soft."

"They did not."

"They absolutely did. It was disgusting." He rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands. "Just promise me something. When he inevitably reverts to form and breaks your heart, I get to key his car."

"You can't keep keying people's cars, Jared."

"It's my signature move. I'm building a brand."

My phone buzzed with a text. I opened it to find a link to a research article about mindfulness in youth sports, followed by a message:

"Found this and thought it supported your point about embodied cognition. Also, I may have googled 'embodied cognition' after you left. Still not entirely sure I understand it, but the article is good. - LF"

"Oh my god, you're smiling at your phone." Jared snatched it before I could stop him. "He sent you research, and admitted to not knowing something! This is worse than I thought."

"It's just professional courtesy." I grabbed my phone back. "He's following through on doing actual work. That's a good thing."

"You're going to text him back, aren't you?"

"Just to acknowledge receipt of the article."

"You're such a liar." But Jared was grinning. "Fine. Text your hockey boy. But when this goes sideways—and it will, because they always do—I better be your first call."

"You're always my first call."

"Damn right I am." He stood, stretching. "I'm going to make popcorn and queue up that reality show where people get married to strangers. We need to remember what disasters relationships are."

After he left, I stared at the text for longer than necessary. Lance had voluntarily done additional research. He'd admitted to not understanding something. He'd thought of our project outside of our scheduled meeting.

These were all positive things for our partnership. Professional things. Nothing more.

I typed: "Thanks for the article. The Johnson study is particularly relevant. See you Friday."

Then I deleted it and tried again: "Thanks! This is perfect for week 2. Also, embodied cognition is basically the idea that our physical experiences shape our mental processes. Think about how you feel more confident in your hockey gear—that's embodied cognition at work."

I hit send before I could overthink it further, then immediately regretted the exclamation point. And the example. And existing in general.

His response came quickly: "That actually makes sense. Like how I think better when I'm moving? Sitting still makes my brain feel stuck."

I typed back without hesitation: "Exactly. Movement activates different neural pathways. It's why some people pace when they're thinking."

"Is that why you tap your pen during lectures? Neural pathway activation?"

He'd noticed my pen tapping. Of course he had. Observant Lance who remembered coffee orders and noticed nervous habits.

"Something like that," I replied, then forced myself to put the phone down.

This was fine. This was just collegial conversation about our mutual academic interests. Nothing more. Nothing that would lead to Jared planning a hockey-themed wedding.

Absolutely nothing.

But when my phone buzzed again— "Found another article. Sending it your way. Warning: it's 30 pages. Might need that lavender latte to get through it" —I couldn't quite suppress the smile that spread across my face.

Friday morning suddenly seemed very far away.