Page 5 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

Rhys

AND RHYS, STILL mid-toss, froze just a half second too long. Enough for Sir Stumps-a-Lot to whiff the catch and dramatically roll into a bush.

Rhys didn’t notice.

Rhys stood there in the fading sunlight, Frisbee forgotten, watching Linda vanish around the corner like a scarf-clad fever dream he might've hallucinated. He wasn’t used to someone throwing him off balance. He kind of liked it. Maybe too much.

“Plot twist,” he murmured to the dog. “We need to use the office party to talk to her. Finally.”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot emerged from the bush with a pinecone in his mouth, tail wagging like a tiny metronome of destiny. He dropped it with a wet thunk and looked up expectantly.

Rhys exhaled. “Yeah, yeah. I saw her.”

He pulled out his phone.

Scrolled to the group chat with his twin sisters—Liv and Darcy—who treated his emotional life like a group project they refused to let him fail.

Room of Requirement

(Named by Liv. No one’s ever challenged her.)

Rhys:

Need help picking an outfit that says

“I’m not an asshole, please talk to me.”

Liv:

Babe. That’s alotof ask for one button-down.

Darcy:

So you want “remorseful but also moisturized”?

Rhys:

More like “emotionally available accountant with good arms.”

Liv:

Ohhhh. You want “I cried in therapy and now own a succulent.”

Darcy:

You want “soft-spoken reformed bad boy but in slacks.”

Rhys:

Yes. That.

But like… no cardigan. Not yet.

Sir Stumps-a-Lot yawned in solidarity.

Darcy:

Is this about Elevator Girl?

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