Chapter 1 — Operation: Fix My Life

Rosie

The problem with rock-bottom epiphanies is that they always hit you somewhere humiliating. Like a dimly lit bar with sticky floors, a saxophonist who’s way too into his solos, and a neon cocktail that tastes like regret. Or during a date with a guy who uses the phrase “alpha male” without irony and spends twenty minutes explaining cryptocurrency like it’s the cure for all of humanity’s problems.

I snapped a picture of my drink—a lurid, radioactive-looking thing that seemed to glow under the bar’s hazy lighting—and sent it to Cam and Gisele in our roommate group chat. My message was succinct: Kill me.

Cam responded instantly: Hang in there. You’re doing it for science.

Gisele followed with: Science doesn’t deserve this. Bail now.

I glanced up at my date, who was gesturing wildly with his fork like someone presenting at a tech conference. “So anyway, that’s why six eggs a day is the secret to peak testosterone. You’d be amazed at what it does for energy levels.”

“Riveting,” I deadpanned, swirling my straw around the monstrosity in my glass. The ice cubes clinked together like tiny echoes of my waning will to live.

This wasn’t just a bad date. This was a cosmic joke. Cam and Gisele had convinced me to “put myself out there” again, but out there was clearly a barren wasteland. Out there was sweaty gym bros, Bitcoin evangelists, and men who thought “low-maintenance girl” meant “doesn’t have opinions.” Out there sucked.

I plastered on a tight smile and set my straw down. “This has been… educational. But I’ve got an early morning.”

He tilted his head like a confused golden retriever. “Oh, I can cover the bill—it’s no big deal.”

“I’ve got it,” I said, slapping a twenty on the table. “Consider it a donation to your egg fund.”

Before he could protest, I slid out of the booth and hurried toward the door. The cool night air hit me as I stepped outside, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Relief coursed through me as I made my way to my car.

Once inside, I yanked my beat-up, coffee-stained pink notebook from my bag. *Rosie’s Notebook of Disasters*, as Gisele had dubbed it. Its worn cover, decorated with sarcastic doodles and stickers, gave it a vibe that screamed, *I’m a hot mess, but I’m organized about it.*

Flipping to a fresh page, I let my pen fly.

Newly Confirmed Truths About Dating:

Men who say they want a “low-maintenance girl” are usually the most high-maintenance people alive.

2. I am not emotionally equipped to listen to another lecture about macros, Bitcoin, or Joe Rogan.

3. Dating apps are a breeding ground for narcissists.

I paused, tapping the pen against my lip, then underlined my next addition with finality:

4. I’m done.

I stared at the words for a moment longer than necessary, my chest tightening with the weight of them. This wasn’t just about bad dates. It was about my failure to make anything work. Every attempt seemed to chip away at my self-worth, leaving me feeling smaller, less hopeful. And I was so, so tired.

By the time I walked into the apartment, Cam was curled up on the couch in one of her flowy cardigans, her hands cradling a mug of tea. Her warm smile barely needed words—*I’m ready to listen if you need me.* Gisele, on the other hand, was sprawled out on the floor amid a sea of takeout containers. Her platinum bob gleamed under the living room lamp, and her earrings—tiny disco balls—caught the light as she twirled a chopstick like a baton.

“Well?” Gisele asked, not even looking up. “Did you break your personal record for worst date, or are we still tied?”

“Oh, it’s shattered. I’m retiring,” I announced, collapsing into the armchair. “My tolerance for idiots has officially hit zero.”

Cam’s brow furrowed slightly, her soft concern instantly making me feel like I’d just confessed to some deep existential crisis. “Are you okay, though? Like, really okay?” she asked, her voice gentle.

“Fantastic,” I replied, letting the sarcasm roll off my tongue like second nature. “In fact, I have a new plan. No more dating. No more sweaty gym bros. No more crypto bros. Just me. My goals. My happiness. And maybe a lot of carbs.”

Gisele sat up straight, her eyes gleaming with dramatic flair. “I support this. But only if we document your transformation. You know, like a ‘before and after’ thing. Cam can write a poem about your emotional growth, and I’ll turn it into a TikTok series.”

“Hard pass.”

“Fine. But I’m still picking the soundtrack for your life-improvement montage.”

Cam smiled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I think it’s a good idea, Rosie. You’ve been way too hard on yourself lately. It’s okay to just… take a breath, you know?”

I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Right. Breathing. Totally my thing now.”

The next day, South Harmon was buzzing with back-to-school energy. The Ivy Quad, usually a picturesque sanctuary of ivy-covered buildings and golden sunlight, had transformed into an organized chaos of tables, banners, and chattering students. Booths lined the pathways, each manned by enthusiastic reps shouting offers for free swag and campus clubs. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and autumn leaves.

Clutching my coffee like it was the only thing tethering me to sanity, I weaved through the crowd, dodging clipboards and overly chipper flyers for Ultimate Frisbee.

“Troutman!”

My stomach sank. There was only one person whose voice could carry that signature mix of charm and cockiness—and it was a voice I’d hoped to never hear again.

I turned slowly, steeling myself. “Sullivan Starr,” I said flatly.

There he was, standing near the football team’s booth, looking like the universe’s favorite golden boy. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy blond hair that managed to look perfectly tousled despite the breeze. His dimpled grin hadn’t lost its smugness, but his blue-gray eyes carried something sharper, something I didn’t want to decode.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Transferring,” he said casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “New team. New start. You know how it is.”

“Fantastic,” I muttered. “Just what this campus needed—another cocky quarterback.”

“Missed you too, Troutman,” he said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still holding that grudge, huh?”

“It’s not a grudge. It’s a perfectly reasonable reaction to being betrayed,” I snapped, my grip tightening on my coffee cup.

For a moment, something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe? His grin faltered, replaced by an almost serious look. “Look, I—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted, holding up a hand. “Whatever excuse you’ve been rehearsing for the past four years? I don’t want to hear it. Just stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

A shadow of something—guilt, maybe?—darted across his face, but he straightened quickly, his grin sliding back into place like armor. “Fine. But just so you know, we’re going to run into each other. A lot. It’s a small campus.”

“Can’t wait,” I said dryly, spinning on my heel before he could say anything else.

As I walked away, the sound of leaves crunching under my boots seemed unusually loud, masking the rush of emotions I didn’t want to unpack. I couldn’t believe Sullivan Starr, of all people, was here. His sudden reappearance felt less like coincidence and more like the universe testing my resolve.

A cosmic reminder that fixing my life would mean facing the mess I’d been avoiding.

Spoiler alert: I was going to crush it.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I headed toward the library and pulled out my *Notebook of Disasters*.

Operation: Fix My Life was officially underway.