Working With Heat by Anne Calhoun

with the process of picking dates for Milla and with her decision to go through Vienna. This week’s poll included yet another banker, an accountant and IT Guy, whom Milla wanted on the list again. “Why do you assign them nicknames based on their jobs?”
    All three girls looked at him. Elsa was still in her kimono. Kaitlin was dressed for work in jeans and a T-shirt bearing the logo for a theatre production she’d designed. Milla wore a dress with a wide collar that bared her arms and stopped just at her knees. It was another retro look he could describe as a sheath only because he’d been dragged downstairs more times than he could count to help one of them put together an outfit. Being a man with an eye for color was both a blessing and a curse.
    “It’s an easy shorthand,” Kaitlin said.
    “They’re more than their jobs. You wouldn’t like it if a man posted the three of you described by your physical appearance. When you call one of them the banker of the week, you make it sound like they’re interchangeable.”
    “They tend to describe themselves that way,” Elsa pointed out reasonably as she ran water to wash the breakfast dishes. “Jobs, sport, that sort of thing.”
    “It’s a good point,” Milla said. She rubbed her thumb along the edge of her phone, considering him. “I don’t post more information because I want to give them some measure of privacy.”
    He appreciated that, knew she’d done it long before she learned how Chelsea had conducted both her affair and her soul-searching on social media. “It’s not really a fair vote for your viewers,” he added. “They’re getting the caption of a snapshot of a human being. They know you, but they don’t know enough about the blokes to make a match with any hope of succeeding.”
    As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Not because they weren’t true—they were. Not because he’d said more than he should have—he hadn’t. He wished he could have them back because he’d learned something about himself when he said them, and now he couldn’t hide from it anymore.
    He didn’t want Milla to succeed. He didn’t want her to find someone who loved bicycling and travel, punk rock and pub quizzes. If she did, everything would change.
    “Another good point,” Milla said cheerfully, not looking at him. “We should make the poll more descriptive.”
    She didn’t care. She was twenty-four, having fun, showed no interest in settling down.
All relationships fail until one doesn’t
, she’d said a couple of weeks earlier. This was as much a social media strategy for Milla as it was an effort to find—
    His brain ground to a halt. A boyfriend? A lover? A
husband
?
    He’d never really imagined the long-term consequences of Milla’s playful dating strategy, because until now, it hadn’t been real.
    It had just gotten real. Very, very real, blindsiding him as only life could.
    “You ready?” Milla asked.
    He came back into the room. “Yeah,” he said.
    “What are you two up to?”
    “Charlie’s offered to show me around the East End,” Milla said. “I’ve been lazy the last few weeks. I need to sand the rust off my travel writer’s brain.”
    He blinked. He’d done no such thing, just said he’d show her the rest of the process. The cleat he’d given her was one of a series he’d made as he was working through the darkness between one clear artistic vision and the next. He’d intended to show her the end result.
    “Ooh,” Elsa said, peering over her shoulder at them, up to her elbows in fairy liquid bubbles.
    “Want to come along?” Milla asked, glancing at Kaitlin to include her.
    Wait
,
what?
    “Can’t,” Kaitlin said distractedly. “I’ve got a big commission due in a couple of days.”
    “I’m due at the bakery in an hour,” Elsa said, regret clear in her voice. “Another time?”
    Rocked back on his heels, Charlie cleared his throat and scrubbed his hand across his chin.