We ate in silence punctuated by careful small talk. Rosie asked about my week—I mentioned Tuesday's emergency surgery, a golden retriever with bloat that nearly didn't make it. She told me about the chickens getting into the garden and the mess they'd made. Safe topics. Easy conversation that danced around whatever was weighing on her mind.
I watched her push vegetables around her plate, the way her smile never quite settled. She complimented the seasoning twice, asked about Sharon's quilting hobby, mentioned the weather forecast. All perfectly normal dinner conversation, except for the deliberate way she chose each topic.
When she finished, only half her chicken was gone and most of the vegetables remained untouched.
“Not hungry?”
“It's delicious, really. I'm just...” She set down her fork. “My stomach's been weird today.”
I nodded, not believing her for a second. But I didn't push.
We cleared the table together, plates and silverware making quiet sounds as we worked. Rosie grabbed the wine glasses while I carried our plates to the sink.
“Just leave them,” she said as I turned on the water. “We can deal with it later.”
“Takes two minutes.”
“Cal.” She touched my arm. “Please. Come sit with me.”
Something in her voice, urgent, almost desperate, made me shut off the faucet. I dried my hands, followed her to the living room.
Pudding bounded onto the couch between us, tail wagging.
“Down, honey.” Rosie gently nudged him to the floor. “Not right now.”
He huffed, circled twice, then collapsed with theatrical disappointment.
Rosie pulled her legs up, turned to face me. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers twisting together then smoothing across her dress.
I had to ask. Whatever this was, I needed to know.
But the way she looked at me, like she was bracing for impact, made my chest tighten. Made my throat feel too small. Whatever she was about to say, it would change things.
“So.” The word came out rough. I cleared my throat, tried again. “What's going on?”
She took a shaky breath. “I got a call a few days ago.”
The way she said it, like she was confessing something, made my stomach drop.
“From who?”
“Lauren Riley.” Rosie's voice was careful, measured. “She was my boss when I worked for the Seattle music festival. Four years ago, before I took the corporate job.”
I nodded, trying to place the name. Rosie had mentioned loving creative work before her soul-crushing corporate job. One of the few times her face had lit up talking about Seattle.
“She's leaving the festival,” Rosie continued, still not meeting my eyes. “Got offered some big promotion with a company in Portland. Corporate events, higher pay, that whole thing.”
My chest felt tight, like I couldn't get enough air. I knew where this was heading, but I waited. Let her tell it.
“Lauren said she recommended me to the hiring committee.” The words came out in a rush. “Said I'd be the perfect fit to take over her job. Art Director. Everything I used to do when I worked for her, but now it would bemydepartment.”
I thought about Rosie's notebook, the detailed business plans and logo designs. The way her whole face changed when she talked about branding, about visual storytelling.
“It's what I always wanted. Before Aaron convinced me I should want something more... practical.” She finally looked at me, eyes bright with unshed tears. “It's everything I thought I'd never get another chance at.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken implications.
I stared at my hands, trying to process what she was telling me. This wasn't just any job offer—this wasthejob offer. The one that could give her back the career her ex had convinced her to abandon.