When the timer on his pour-over beeps, Josh pours the contents of the Chemex into his mug, letting his brain drift back to a time when he had everything to look forward to.
“Have you heard from Sophie?” his mother asks.
Right. The second reason for this ambush: a Sophie pile-on.
“She seems fine,” he says, voice clipped.
Abby frowns. “Will she still come to the event at the Historical Society? They’re honoring your father. I can’t have an empty chair at our table.”
“She unfollowed him last month,” Briar says as if announcing time of death on a patient in the hospital. She grabs her phone and turns EX? into EX next to Sophie’s contact information.
Josh spreads the correct amount of plain cream cheese over the top half of the bagel and tries to anchor.
“It wasn’t about me,” he says, leaning back in the chair, trying to look at ease. “She got a promotion.”
Briar tilts her head. “It is a bit sus that she accepted a job halfway across the world a couple weeks after agreeing to move in with you, though.”
“It wasn’t ‘sus.’ It was a career opportunity.”
His sister squints at him, as if trying to glean any sign of anguish behind his eyes.
He gives her nothing. He’s fine. He’s left the apartment several times in the last two weeks. Devastated people don’t go to the gym and run the interval sequence on the treadmill for an hour at a seven-percent incline—a new personal best. They don’t even get out of bed.
“God, Sophie’s grid was a dream,” Briar whispers as she swipes through his ex’s carefully curated and filtered photographs, which stopped including Josh sometime last year. Anchor.
“Good,” Abby says, continuing to take measurements. “Then you’re ready to move on.”
Before Josh can protest, Briar jumps in. “Here.” She holds out her phone, open to a dating app he’s never seen before. “I set up a profile for you last month. I’ve been chatting with this one for a few days.”
There’s a photo of “Maddie, 31,” with long, dark brown hair, preternaturally white teeth, and a slight case of duck lips.
“This woman has been chatting with you?”
“Technically it’s catfishing, but I think the two of you have totally amazing chemistry. Look, I think she took this pic at The Brod.”
“She’s an Elite Yelper,” his mother adds, looking over Briar’s shoulder.
“Great.” Josh turns away from the screen. “I won’t have to explain why I’m unemployed.”
Briar ignores the bait. “I’ve tried to…reframe your aloof asshole quality.”
“？‘Asshole quality’？”
“Women don’t want to date a man who looks like he’s in mourning.” Briar glances at his black sweater and black pants—which have a button closure, NOT sad sweatpants, thank you very much. “Which you do. Just, like, normally.”
It’s bullshit. Everyone in New York looks like they’re on their way to a funeral at this time of year.
“On the other hand,” she continues, “you’re basically the Darkling of the New York restaurant world. We can use that! And you two are definitely at the IRL meeting stage. We can set something up right now. I’m thinking bubble tea and Citi Bikes—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Look at her, Josh! She could be your Hiddleston!” Briar practically shoves the phone in his face. “The longer you isolate, the harder it’ll be to get back out there. I’m going to find you a new girlfriend by the end of the year. I’m speaking it into existence.”
Anchor. “I’m not riding bikes with a woman who doesn’t realize she’s been flirting with my sister.”
“We can pick someone else right now,” she insists with a dramatic swipe. “Look—what about Sage?”
Abby returns to the table to evaluate Briar’s taste in future sisters-in-law. “I love a botanical name!”
“I’m naming my first child ‘Cedar,’？” Briar adds.
Josh frowns. “Seder?”
“Ooh, she has a septum piercing. We are swiping right!”
“I’m not interested in Maddie or Cedar—”
“It’s Sage.”
“—or anyone.” He nods down at Briar’s phone. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”
“Okay, you’re right. It’s not an ideal narrative for the Times Weddings section.” Briar swipes right on Sage without a hint of subtlety. “But you need to start somewhere.”