Page 14 of Julian

“Or all three.”

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Honestly, even if Mr. Fully Formed Adult with a 401(k) and a healthy hairline showed up, when would I see him? Between driving shifts and trying to keep Dylan on track, there’s no time for anything else. And frankly, Dylan is more important than anything I could ever want for myself.”

Abby’s expression softens slightly. “You deserve a break, you know. Not just responsibility.”

I look down at the table, tracing a scratch in the wood with my finger. “I know. It just feels… indulgent sometimes. Like dating is this optional luxury.”

“Harper,” she says firmly, “it’s not indulgent to want someone.”

I meet her eyes. “Maybe. But right now, I’d settle for someone who texts back, doesn’t ghost, and still has hair.”

Abby raises an imaginary glass. “To the endangered species.”

We clink invisible cups.

“All right,” Abby says, as if she’s just reached a verdict in a courtroom. “We are getting you out of this apartment.”

I eye her cautiously. “Out where, exactly?”

“Out out,” she clarifies, waving a hand. “On the town. In clothes that aren’t leggings. Around live music. Around people. Around men who might still possess both emotional availability and a—”

“Pulse?”

“I was going to say a job.”

I laugh despite myself, but she’s already leaning forward, momentum building.

“There’s this new band, The Geese, everyone’s obsessed with,” she continues. “They’re playing Thursday night in Greenpoint. It’s one of those buzzy, impossible-to-get-into shows.”

“Impossible is not usually a selling point. Regardless, I really can’t afford tickets.”

“You don’t have to pay for a thing,” she says with a self-satisfied grin. “One of my clients knows the promoter. I can get us in.”

I hesitate, picturing the logistics—the train, the late night, the inevitable exhaustion the next morning.

“You need this,” Abby insists, softening slightly. “You need to leave your apartment for a reason that doesn’t revolve around work or responsibility or crisis management. You need to mingle a little. Remember what it’s like to just exist in a room.”

I open my mouth to object, but she barrels on.

“And,” she adds triumphantly, “that marshmallow chocolate place we love? The one with the dark chocolate sea salt squares? They’re one of the sponsors. They’re doing samples.”

My resolve falters. “They are not.”

“They are.”

My expression betrays me. “Those marshmallow chocolates are dangerous.”

“I know,” she says. “Which is why you’re coming.”

I let out a slow breath, already halfway convinced. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come. I just need to check my driving schedule before I commit to anything.”

“That’s all I ask.”

I reach for my phone and open the chauffeur app, already calculating which bookings I might need to shuffle but hopeful I can snag others to make up the difference. The screen loads as usual, the familiar interface appearing beneath my thumb.

And then I pause.

The bookings tab is empty.