Rosa’s New Game – Chapter 11

“Great!” he confirms, his face breaking into a wide grin. A tiny part of me is happy I make him smile like that. “Sunshine. Fresh air. People who aren’t talking about budgets. Think of it as… atmospheric therapy.”

My brain screams No! Go home! Wallow! It also screams Get back to work! You have appointments! Don’t give them an excuse to fire you! But the thought of my office, the stares of my colleagues, or the echoing silence in my room, the judgmental creaks of the old house, or the inevitable third degree from Demi… Overpriced vegetables sound a lot better.

Escape. Even a temporary one.

I can leave. What are they going to do? Fire me?

Ha. Shit. I am screwed.

Turn that frown upside down, Rosa.

“Okay. Therapy. Something I know all too well. But if anyone tries to sell me artisanal goat cheese, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

He chuckles, a genuine sound that eases the tension in my shoulders. “Deal. Goat cheese is on me.”

The walk down to the riverfront market is quiet, but it feels different from the awkwardness after our first encounter. This is… processing. Me processing the potential implosion of my career, him probably processing my sudden mood swings. Raimei trotting along at my feet says nothing.

The market buzzes with a vibrant energy opposite to the sterile I.A. corridors. Canvas stalls overflow with pyramids of gleaming fruit, fragrant herbs, and vegetables in an array of colors. Laughter mingles with the calls of vendors and the strumming of a lone guitarist near the water’s edge. It smells like damp earth, ripe peaches, and grilling corn.

Rhys buys a bag of sweet and smoky nuts, still warm in the bag. “Here. Eat these as we walk.” I take them and pop them in my mouth, one by one. Mmmm, okay. That was a good purchase.

Comforted by the snack, we wander along. I inhale and bring the air down into my belly, letting it all out slowly. I already feel better.

Rhys steers me towards a stall piled high with glistening red peppers. “Look at these. Perfect for roasting.”

“What would you pair them with?” I ask, shoving aside more of the corporate dread.

“Red onions and chicken?” He bumps my shoulder. “I saw you taking the deep breath. Feeling better?”

Yeah. I do. A crack has appeared in the icy dread coating my insides. I watch Rhys haggle with a farmer over the price of sun-ripened tomatoes, his effortless charm drawing a smile from the gruff-looking woman. Next, he buys a small basket of assorted fruit, handing me a peach. It bursts in my mouth, warm and sweet, tasting like pure sunshine.

Okay. Maybe this isn’t the worst idea.

We wander, sampling sweet strawberries, sniffing pungent bunches of basil. Rhys points out a dog that looks like a walking dust mop, making Raimei snort. He tells me about a disastrous attempt he made at pickling cucumbers. (“Let’s just say the jars achieved sentience and tried to escape. There was pickle juice everywhere.”) I tell him about the time my dad tried to “fix” the leaky roof with experimental sealant and ended up gluing three squirrels to the shingles.

Laughter bubbles up, surprising me. It feels good. Real. For a little while, wandering between stalls laden with delicious things, the I.A. and its soul-crushing budget cuts seem very far away. Rhys’s presence beside me is solid and comforting. His eyes, when they meet mine, hold a warmth that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun. The spark is still there, flickering brighter with every shared laugh, every casual touch.

Walking back to the main street as the market winds down, a pleasant quiet settles between us again. But my earlier anxieties, momentarily suppressed by sunshine and strawberries, resurface.

Any time soon. The official word.

The potential end of everything I’ve worked for.

I stop, the basket of fruit heavy in my hand. Rhys stops too, watching me, his expression patient.

Escape. I need more than a market stroll. I need… oblivion. A complete system shutdown. A way to silence the frantic hamster wheel in my brain.

My gaze flickers to Rhys. His calm smile, the way the sun catches the curve of his jaw, the memory of that kiss in the pavilion… Heat stirs low in my belly, fueled by desperation as much as desire.

Screw it.

“Hey,” I say, my voice sounding breathless, even to my own ears. “This whole ‘de-stressing’ thing… I think I need the advanced level.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Advanced level?”

“Yeah.” I meet his gaze, injecting a boldness I haven’t had in a while. “Your place? Is it far?”

“No. Now?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Now.” The implication hangs in the air, undeniable. Forget the farmer’s market. Forget the I.A. Forget everything.

Just… this. Him. Now.

Is this insane? Inviting myself over to the place of the man who vanished without a trace? My therapist’s brain flashes red warning signs. Trust isn’t built overnight, especially after being burned the first time. He could disappear again the second things get real.

But… he did apologize. He showed up for tea, for Stars Above. He listened. He’s kept his word this time, even when I’ve been prickly and stressed. And right now, the thought of going home to face worried sisters or a meddling father, or sitting alone stewing about the I.A., is unbearable. This is a gamble, a desperate move fueled by panic, not perfect faith.

But he’s here. And I need an out.

Surprise flickers across his face, followed by something hotter, darker. Understanding. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t hesitate. He nods, a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes holding mine. “Okay. Advanced level it is.”

“I’m going to head home,” Raimei says, and I startle at the sound. I had almost forgotten he was there. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he calls out over his shoulder. “Wait. Do whatever.” He chuckles as he saunters off.

True to his word, Rhys’s apartment isn’t far. Small, tidy, filled with plants and the faint scent of sandalwood. Minimalist furniture, stacks of books and business plans on the kitchen table, a yoga mat rolled neatly in the corner.

It’s calm. Centered. Like him.

The moment the door clicks shut behind us, the nervous energy, the desperate need for distraction, consumes me. I drop the basket on a small table, turn, and he’s already reaching for me.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close. His mouth finds mine, hungry, demanding, mirroring the urgency coursing through me. This isn’t the tentative exploration of our previous kisses. This is raw need. A desperate clinging. A frantic attempt to replace fear with sensation.

Clothes become obstacles, shed quickly, impatiently. His hands are everywhere, learning the curves of my body, igniting fires wherever they touch. My skin tingles, hypersensitive. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down the column of my throat, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that makes me gasp.

He pushes me against the wall, his mouth capturing mine in a searing kiss that steals my breath. His hands roam over my body, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they harden under his touch. I gasp as he lowers his head, taking one sensitive peak between his teeth, the gentle nip sending electric shocks straight to my core.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice steeped with lust. His hands slide down, palming the curve of my ass, pulling me tighter against him. He is rock hard through the thin fabric still between us.

Afterward in his bed, we lie tangled together as the world resumes outside, the silence broken only by the sound of our breathing. He pulls me close to him, his skin warm against mine. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the knot of anxiety in my chest has loosened.

I am… calm. Spent. Safe. A fragile bubble of peace in the midst of the storm.

I snuggle closer, burying my face in the space of his shoulder, inhaling his scent. Maybe this can work. Maybe we can put last year behind us. Maybe —

Ping.

The soft, insistent notification chime from my mini tablet in the other room slices through the quiet intimacy. My heart gives a painful lurch.

Work. It has to be. No one else would ping me right now.

Rhys stirs beside me. “Don’t,” he mumbles into my hair.

“It’s probably nothing.” But the fragile peace has shattered, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.

Do I go get my tablet? I should.

“Be right back,” I say, wrapping a blanket around myself. Rhys groans, but he doesn’t move to stop me.

In the other room, I reach for the tablet, my hand trembling. The screen lights up. A message from I.A. Human Resources.

Subject: Important Update Regarding Agency Restructuring.

My body cools. I tap it open, scanning the official, impersonal text.  “…regret to inform you… difficult decisions… role identified for redundancy… non-core department realignment… further information to follow about this reduction in force…”

Redundancy. Non-core. Layoff.

The words swim before my eyes. The air rushes out of my lungs. It’s happening. My job, my career, the thing I pour my heart and soul into, the thing that gives me purpose beyond the soccer field… gone. Reduced to ‘non-core.’

A choked sob escapes me, raw and ugly. Tears well, hot and furious, and panic claws at my throat.

False hope. It is all false hope.

The meeting, my stupid speech, the fleeting moments of laughter at the market, the intimacy, the peace I’d had only moments ago… all of it, a cruel illusion before the inevitable crash, right? Everything will fall apart. It always does.

“Rosa? What’s wrong?” Rhys is suddenly beside me in his underwear, his voice laced with alarm, his hand reaching for me.

I step away, pulling the sheet tighter around me like armor. “No.”

No. I can’t have his pity right now. I can’t let this mess everything up. I can’t.

His eyes widen, hurt flashing in their depths. “What…? What happened?”

“It’s happening.” My voice is a whisper. “They’re laying me off. My job. Gone. Just like everything else.” I gesture between us, the room, the universe. “This, you? It’s all a lie, right? False hope. Everyone is setting me up to pull the rug right out from under me.”

Rhys. My job. My knee. Everything is a lie. It must be. There’s no way he’s genuine when everything else is so shitty. That’s not how life works.

“Rosa, that’s not…” He presses his hands together and brings them to his lips, composing himself. “It’s not a lie. I am…” He shakes his head. “I’m gone for you. I’m here. We can figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” I laugh, a harsh, broken sound. “How to live on air? How to trust anyone when everything falls apart? How to believe in second chances when the first one ended with you disappearing?” The accusation hangs between us, poisoned by my panic and fear.

He recoils as if struck, his face paling.

Shit. I went too far.

Too far.

He’s gone for me, and I said that?

He drops his hands, the hurt in his eyes deepening into a quiet sorrow. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend himself. He just… watches me, his expression shuttered.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. Shame washes over me, cold and swift, but the panic is stronger. I can’t be here. Can’t face the pity, the confusion, the reminder of how my life is imploding.

“I have to go.” I grab my discarded clothes, my hands shaking so hard I can barely pull them on and fasten them. My knee screams in protest, a fitting echo of the chaos inside me.

Rhys doesn’t try to stop me. He stands there, watching me flee, the sunlight casting long shadows across his face, highlighting the sorrowful set of his mouth.

I stumble out of his apartment out into the afternoon, leaving the scent of sandalwood, sex, and shattered hope behind me. The tears come, hot and blinding, blurring the sidewalks into watery paths as I limp towards the bus, utterly, devastatingly alone.