We step onto the sidewalk, afternoon light turning golden, and part ways at 23rd.
“Thanks for today,” I say, adjusting my bag strap. “It was… surprisingly great.”
Max grins. “I’ll try not to be offended by the ‘surprisingly.’”
We exchange a quick smile—something lingering just beneath it—and then I turn toward the subway.
Halfway down the block my phone buzzes. A new text:Max Donovanwith a thumbnail image. I open it. Melody sprawls across his shoulder, one paw dangling over a faded tattoo line, her ear bent like origami. Caption:World’s smallest roadie.
I choke on a laugh that startles a nearby pigeon. On my phone I tap Emily’s name and she answers on the second ring.
“Hi sweetie, how was your day?” she asks.
I huff a laugh. “It was…interesting.”
“Define interesting.”
“Emily,” I say, dodging a puddle, “Chef Luigi may never forgive me, a teenage hair-dye enthusiast almost live-streamed a cat rescue, and I’m now in a contractual relationship with a rockstar who can’t keep flour in a bowl.”
A beat of silence. Then: “I need snacks for this. Start at the top.”
I shift my messenger bag, settling into storyteller mode while weaving between trash cans. “So—fake-dating scheme, remember? Three wholesome outings, no feelings, just optics.”
“Right. PR romance: deflect gossip, save library, happily ever after for spreadsheets.”
“Exactly. Today was date number one, and it involved a cooking class where Max detonated five pounds of flour like confetti, doused us both in tomato sauce, and triggered the fire-suppression sprinklers.”
Emily wheezes a delighted laugh. “Please tell me someone filmed that.”
“Vivienne’s photographer caught every angle. And Luigi called usinnamoratibefore the oven even pre-heated.”
“Wait—he dropped the L-word in Italian?”
“Repeatedly. Max played along, of course. But that’s just who he is.”
“Oh, wow.” I can practically hear her flop back onto her pillows. “How did it feel?”
“That’s the problem.” I sidestep a delivery cyclist. “It felt… not entirely fake. He’s clumsy and charming, and every time he laughs, I feel it in my knees.”
Emily sigh-snorts—a sound I’ve learned meansproceed with caution, but also swoon. “Dangerous territory, Davidson. And the kitten?”
“Right, the kitten.” I recount the drugstore escape, the alley feeding, and Melody falling asleep on Max’s shoulder. Emily’s awwwwmight shatter glass. “We made a lost-pet plan: flyers, vet for a microchip. Melody picked him—clung to his shirt like velcro. So he’s fostering until we find the owner.”
“This is straight rom-com gold.” Emily blows her nose. “And you gave him your number, didn’t you?”
I toe a pebble into the gutter, cheeks warming despite the cold. “For cat updates. Strictly professional. But somehow I felt… disappointed when he first said he needed my number only for the cat.”
“That’s because part of you hoped he wanted it foryou.”
I stop at my stoop, key poised. “Maybe. Is that ridiculous? I mean, that guy is a rockstar. He would never seriously date me. If even, he has other plans, with no thought of a committed relationship.”
Emily hums sympathetically and says gently. “Rockstars date humans, too. Here’s my prescription: hot shower, face mask and chamomile tea. We’ll reassess after the second date.”
We say good-night.
On the crowded subway platform, the train screeches in. Someone bumps my shoulder. For once I don’t mind. Somewhere above ground, a rockstar carries a stray cat home, careful not to jostle her crooked ear. My inbox holds proof: maybe disasters can bloom into something fragile and astonishing if you’re willing to kneel in an alley and offer gravy.
The train doors slide shut, and my reflection on the darkened window grins back—flour-flecked, sauce-streaked, undeniably alive.
