Roz is strangely quiet on the walk to the sandwich shop a couple blocks over, Bee Yell Tee. Not that I can blame her, really. I think we both had a cry while she showered. I feel awful.

At least the walk is pretty, I guess. It's chillier out today as fall settles into Manhattan. The trees outside Roz's apartment began to turn last week. Their leaves have already started to fall. Cautiously, I navigate around small orange and yellow piles—you never want to step in a leaf pile in New York, a mistake I made my first autumn here—stepping instead on stray leaves already well-trodden so that they lie flush with the cement, yet so fresh that they haven't dried enough to crunch quite yet. With each step, my tote bag bounces against my hip, weighed down by my laptop and the rom-com Roz recommended to me last week.

I keep glancing over at Roz, wrapped in her trench coat, her damp curls held in a make-shift bun by her jumbo claw clip. She's not wearing any makeup, not that I can tell, but her Prada glasses and the chocolate-flavored chapstick I watched her apply in the elevator are more than enough. Her perfume, her body wash—whatever it is that makes her smell so good—is stronger than ever. I'd grown used to it over the past couple months, I guess, but now, it's pleasantly in my face.

When we get to Bee Yell Tee, she steps forward and holds the door open for me. My shoulder brushes lightly against hers and I grimace, barely managing to mutter a thank you as she follows behind me.

"So," she says—the first thing she's said since we left her apartment—"I'm gonna do the turkey. You?"

"Turkey sounds good," I say. It's mumbly. I'm so stupid. Why hasn't she fired me yet? I'm terrible at this job. The ultimate fuckup, truly. "Thank you."

I find us a table near the online order pick-up portion of the counter. The place is packed; I barely manage to snag it before two well-dressed finance bros get to it, earning me matching disapproving glares. I ignore them, rather pointedly, and set my tote bag on the bench next to me.

Roz makes her way over soon after, plopping her clutch on the table, alongside two murky hand-pressed ginger apple juices that she and I have had at least two rave sessions about since we last ordered from here.

She plunks down into her seat with a sigh. "I'm surprisingly exhausted," she says, pulling the hair tie out. "Paper fiasco aside."

"'Surprisingly?'" I echo. "You've been sleeping like a med student before an organic chemistry final. For at least two weeks. And you're exhausted, surprisingly."

She takes a sip of her drink, her brow furrowing as she does. I know her well enough to know she's being playful. Relief swells in my chest. She sets her drink on the table and gives me a challenging stare.

"Did I ask?" she asks.

"Do I care?"

"Touché." She glances behind her to the open kitchen, leaning against the back of her seat. She watches them make our sandwiches in complete silence. I try to follow suit, but before I know it, I find myself staring at her, at her sleeveless burgundy bodysuit and her slate grey slacks. Her arms are toned, and her jawline is pronounced by the way her head is turned. Her side profile is sharp, dignified, but there's this softness in the slight curve of her lips and in her wet, messy curls that manage to make her feel approachable, without dulling down the regality of her features.

One of the kitchen staff brings us our sandwiches, meeting Roz's thanks with an overzealous, "No, thank you, Ms. Lindbergh," before excitedly scurrying back to the kitchen with a wide smile.

"So," Roz says, unwrapping her sandwich and staring at it instead of eating. It makes me hesitate before taking a bite of my own turkey sub. "How's your book going, Marcella?"

I swallow. Hard. We haven't spoken about my writing since the cafe. I'd almost wondered if she'd completely forgotten about her offer to take a look at it—if her offer had been made during some sort of discreetly manic episode that she wanted to pretend never happened.

I wouldn't have blamed her if it had. Especially after the paper fiasco, as Roz so eloquently dubbed it.

"It's alright," I answer. I know I'm speaking too quietly, which is annoying, and that my awkwardness and nervousness aren't cute, and they certainly aren't professional—but I find I can't help it. My finger taps against my sandwich of its own accord. I can't look Roz in the eye, focusing instead on the disgruntled finance bros seated directly behind her.

"Just alright?" she presses.

I force myself to look at her. "It's ... not where I want it to be?" I clear my throat. "I'm normally more of a plotter than a pantser. Like, I need to know all the beats and scenes and character arcs. With this, I just ... hadn't really thought to outline it? I've never been a discovery writer. Which was pretty much fine until I got to the end."

Roz takes a long, thoughtful sip of her juice. "Understandable," she says finally. "What exactly is giving you trouble?"

"I ... I don't know why the characters belong together." It's so simple, but the confession makes me feel like even more of an idiot. "Sorry. I know that's silly. Like, why write a romance when the characters don't seem like a good fit?"

"Do they not have any chemistry?" Roz asks, leaning forward and propping her chin in her hand. Her stare is hawk-like, yet simultaneously quizzical. I try not to squirm.

"They do." I can feel an embarrassed heat working its way onto my cheeks. "They do. But I want them to have something more ... substantial? I don't know. Their banter is kinda fun to write, I guess, and they definitely have a lot of chemistry. But I feel like that's not enough, somehow?"

"So let me get this straight," Roz says. I'm staring at her lips again, I realize. I should stop that. "They have fun banter. They have a lot of chemistry. And they shouldn't be together?"

"It just doesn't make sense." I feel like an idiot. No, no—I am an idiot. Decidedly. "The romantic interest is just so much cooler than the main character. I don't get what she would be getting out of their relationship."

Roz lifts a singular brow. Her gaze seems to intensify. "Do you think that relationships are transactional, Marcella?"

"Okay, well, that's a misleading question," I tell her. "No one wants a partner who doesn't bring anything to the table."

"That might not be entirely untrue, but I don't think that this is your characters' situation," Roz counters. I glance quickly around the sandwich shop. Like, is anyone else seeing this? Rosalind Lindbergh, deigning to debate my book with me? Dreams do come true. Terrifyingly enough.

But no one else seems to be paying us any mind as Roz continues: "If your romantic interest enjoys spending time with your main character, and they have chemistry, and their time together is enjoyable, then why shouldn't she want to be with her? Is that not enough for her to 'bring to the table?' Especially if they're college-aged."

I shake my head, squeezing my sub. "It's not that simple. Roz—Robin—should be with someone more on her level."

"Her 'level?'"

"Y'know, like .... someone else who's cool?" I offer weakly. "The romantic interest is on a completely different life track than my MC. Isabella is such a fuckup that she's more likely to derail the RI's successful future more so than anything else."

"That's a pretty sad way to look at things." She drums her fingers against her cheek. "Sorry if this is reaching, but ... do you think you derailed your girlfriend's future, Marcella?"

"I—" I clamp my mouth shut. Suddenly, the heat in my cheeks feels more like a hot stinging behind my eyes, mixed with a tightness in my throat. My voice is timid and strangled and suddenly quite raw, and I hate it—"Why would you ask that?"

"We write what we know," Roz says, nonplussed. "And, I suppose, we accept the love we think we deserve."

I find myself laughing—more a short cackle than anything, really. "I'm sorry, what? What does that even mean?"

"I just think you're looking at this relationship all wrong. Something is clouding your judgement."

My voice gains a bitter edge. I can't help it. "And what does that mean?"

"It means that you should crack open a romance book or two, Marcella. It's not about what career opportunities or financial securities characters can offer each other. Sure, those can be the intended audience's fantasy, but so can getting with the sensitive artist type, the one who makes just enough to buy a coffee every now and again."

She shifts in her seat, sitting up straight without using her hand to support her ching before she continues. "What your priority should be is making sure that your characters enjoy each other's company and share a mutual attraction. That's it. That's all."

I can't believe myself—I'm shaking my head in disagreement.

"I think it's a fair point to want to make sure that your characters won't harm each other," I tell her. "My MC isn't really doing anything to make her interest's life better."

"I'd argue that there's a difference between a transactional relationship and a healthy one. Romance plots don't need to involve entire lives being changed. What you need are strong, complimentary character arcs. Does your love interest like spending time with her?"

"Well, I mean, of course." Robin continuously seeks out Isabella throughout the book. She's the primary instigator of pretty much everything. For some reason. "But I don't get why."

"Is your main character unlikable?"

"Maybe?" I grimace. "I think she's probably more annoying than anything else. She's immature compared to her interest. The goals she has for herself feel shallow. She doesn't have much of a game plan. She and the RI almost feel too similar in some regards."

"How so?" Roz asks, cocking her head.

It's like I can feel myself piecing together the thoughts as I speak. "It's like ... Robin doesn't have highly specific ambitions, but she's really good at everything, and she's got a lot going on, and she's going to be successful no matter what."

"And your MC?"

"She's ... kind of the same. She doesn't have any really specific goals, but I feel like her main conflict outside of her romantic relationship stuff is career-oriented." I hesitate. "So I guess it would be nice if she and the RI could help each other out in that regard."

"Meaning?"

"I need to make them better foils?" My gaze drifts to the yellow ceiling lights. I scratch my thumb across my lips, lost in thought. My mind is racing. That could work. I could make that work.

If their biggest strengths tie into their biggest weaknesses and contrast each other directly, then as they grow close, they'll inevitably help each other through their character arcs. Which would also strengthen their arcs, just like Roz said. "Let Robin keep being naturally good at things but directionless, and make Isabella more driven, but a hard, obsessive worker."

"Sounds like it could work," Roz says, then takes a massive first bite of her sandwich. I look over just in time to catch the briefest glimpse of her eyes rolling back just slightly. "Oh my god, wait, I'm so hungry. What the hell?"

"I literally told you so. And, yeah, I think it might work." I sit up straighter. "I mean, Robin is more social than Isabella, who's really introverted. If she's avoiding parties and a social life to study, it could add to character development and characterization."

"Yeah?" Roz asks through a mouthful of turkey, her eyes wide and uncharacteristically innocent.

"Yeah." I nod, smiling without meaning to. "This actually might fix a lot of their issues."

"So it was character arcs, not compatibility?"

"I ... yeah, I guess so."

"So"—she quirks a small smile—"do you still think your issue is because Isabella was too boring for Robin?"

I sigh, but I'm still smiling back, despite myself. "Okay, okay, whatever. Your little overly-idealistic arguments really only work in books, though. I think the real world works differently."

Roz shakes her head. "Damn. You know, I really don't understand you sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing," she says.

I laugh. It sounds hollow. "Roz, I think I know a thing or two about dating. I was in a committed relationship for six years."

"Yes, a one-sidedly committed relationship with the woman who treated you like complete and total shit."

"Okay?" I frown. She's not entirely wrong. But there's this tiny, aching part of me that wants to tell her that she's not entirely right, either. "And what about it?"

"Nothing," she says again, then pauses. "Just, this is precisely why I don't date."

Something sharp lodges itself in my chest. "And what do you mean by that?"

"Sorry. No. Forget I said anything. It's not appropriate."

"Rosalind."

She hesitates. The power of the full name, I suppose. "Just ... falling in love can be damaging, I guess."

"Are you calling me damaged?"

"What? Oh honey, no, no." Honey. I've seen her and Catalina call each other "honey" and "babe" and every other pet name under the sun enough times to know that it doesn't necessarily mean anything. Yet, it still manages to make me weak in the knees.

"Although, I can't say I understand," she continues.

I attempt to take a steadying breath. "Understand what?"

"Why did you stay with Gina for so long, Marcella?" Her voice is quiet; her tone, reserved. I'm amazed she even remembers Gina's name. "From everything you've told me about her, she wasn't kind to you. Not like you deserve. Not like anyone deserves. She was controlling, and she was condescending, and—"

"I know, okay?" My throat is tight. Where the fuck is this coming from? Is she trying to be helpful right now? "I know she was. But I'm happy with—"

"You don't," Roz says, cutting me off in turn. "And, no, I don't think you are. I need you to listen to me. She wasn't a good girlfriend to you."

"Hey." This is seriously fucked. I've never told any of my friends about Gina, and for good reason. "I know."

She shakes her head. "We've spoken about her over text, but I still don't get it. I mean, after what she did your freshman year. That thing with those girls, and the party, and your grandpa. And then your first two years in Manhattan—"

"That's–that's different," I insist. I shouldn't have told her about Gina and my grandpa. "I know it was bad. But I wasn't perfect either."

"What, because you followed her out to the East Coast like she begged you to, instead of taking your free masters degree?" Roz leans forward, shaking her head at me. Her eyes are soft, pleading. "Because you gave up your grant to pay bills that you wouldn't have had to pay if you'd have accepted the full package?"

I swallow. "I know, I know, I squandered the grant, Roz. You don't have to rub it in."

"You didn't squander it, Marcella. Gina was just an unsupportive asshole. A convincing one." She reaches across the table and gently lays her hand over mine. "The whole Wentworth grant thing doesn't matter. You were young. You're still young."

"I'm not that young," I tell her. "Jesus." My voice cracks. For the second time today, hot tears threaten to spill over. Part of me wants to jerk my hand away from Roz's touch—yet for some reason, I don't.

I can still remember my mom's voice over the phone when I told her I'd be moving instead of staying at the University of Iowa. You're wasting your life on nothing. You're still young. You can stop this.

Fuck.

I try to retain my composure. "It was my opportunity to give up, Roz."

She's clearly unconvinced. "Grant aside, it's heartbreaking to think of you being with someone like Gina for so long. You deserved so much better. You deserve better. And then to see you have this warped view on being unworthy in relationships...."

"Sure." My laugh is dry. No tears have fallen yet, strictly speaking, but I still find myself wiping my cheek roughly with the back of my hand. "I don't see why you care, Roz."

If that was the wrong thing to say to her, she doesn't make it obvious. "I care," she says measuredly, "because, despite what I've claimed in the past, I see you as more than an employee. If it's not too much of a stretch, Marcella...."

My throat hitches. The winks. The texting. The frequent bouts of dizzying closeness. The—

"I'd like to think we're friends now."

"Ah." I sound all snotty and congested, even though I've been successful in not crying. If my stuffiness bothers her, she doesn't show it. Friends. Of course. Roz doesn't feel the same weird, inexplicable pull toward me that I feel toward her. The tightness in my chest dissipates, sinking down and settling uncomfortably in my stomach.

How does she not get what my issue is with Robin and Isabella getting together?

How does she not see that it's us? That we could never be together? Can't she let me project in peace? Is it even projecting if I'm right?

She doesn't see me as an option. That's what it is. We're barely friends, after all. I'm so beneath her, so pathetic. She's Rosalind. Fucking. Lindbergh.

I'm worse than no one.

"I'm saying this to you as a friend," she says. "You deserve to date someone who doesn't make you feel lesser, or like you owe it to them to be someone you're not."

"Roz...." My throat is tight.

"The only thing you should be required to bring to the table is yourself, Marcella."

"It's fine. Look, Roz—we really don't need to be friends if this is how being friends is gonna be." I rub my temple and try to smile without crying. My other hand remains beneath Roz's. She squeezes my finger when I speak, staring at me as if I'm the only thing in the world; it makes my stomach flip, because I'm a gullible little idiot. "I appreciate you caring about me, but my love life isn't any of your concern. It's okay. I'm okay."

Surprisingly, she doesn't move her hand back.

Instead, she says, "I care about you."

"You say that, but—"

"I care about you, Marcella," she says again. She shifts so that, instead of squeezing just my finger, she's tenderly yet firmly gripping my whole hand. I glance down—I don't know what's happening, but I've definitely had dreams like this. "Deeply."

I suck in a ragged breath. What is this?

I've just ... never had a conversation like this before. I don't talk to people like this. Ever.

"Okay?"

"You've got a lot more going for you than you think you do," she insists.

This, I can't help but laugh at. I squeeze her hand back, still avoiding her piercing gaze. "Sure, Roz. Thanks."

Suddenly, we're both holding hands tightly. Across a table. While I hold back red-hot embarrassed tears. Is this just a girlhood friendship vibe thing? Or.... No. No, surely not.

"You do. If you weren't my assistant, I'd—" She stops. But she keeps on squeezing my hand, so I keep on squeezing back.

I look up at her. Our eyes meet. "If I wasn't your assistant, you'd...?"

She adjusts her grip, her expression suddenly far more serious, yet far less readable. I watch her lips part as she hesitates. This time, it's my hand squeezing hers.

It's as if time comes to a complete stop. My breathing ceases, and I wait, nailed anxiously to the front of my seat in gut-tumbling anticipation.

I've got to be wrong. I've got to be.