PICKLES

The Langley place sat on a cul-de-sac so quiet it felt like it had been vacuum-sealed. Every lawn was aggressively manicured, hedges trimmed with a sense of moral superiority. A flag fluttered on one porch. Another had gnomes—plural.

Reed parked two houses down. Just in case.

As he stepped out, a sprinkler hissed lazily to his right. A wind chime jangled off-key to his left. The scent of lemon-something wafted faintly through the breeze—cleaner or cake, he couldn’t tell.

Probably both.

He walked up the path and rang the doorbell.

Screen door creak. Footsteps.

Then Scott Langley opened the door and smiled.

He wore gym shorts, a faded “Eugene Trail Scramble 10K” shirt, and the hopeful expression that made Reed’s stomach shift slightly. He held a mug that read “PAWSITIVE VIBES ONLY” with the sincere conviction of someone who did not think irony was necessary for beverage holders.

“You’re Reed?” he said, already stepping aside. “She said someone might reach out. Come in, man.”

Reed hesitated. “Sure. Thanks.”

The house smelled like dryer sheets, lemon polish … and ground turkey? A distant voice—female, humming something vaguely religious—drifted from the back. A mixer clattered in the kitchen.

Scott gestured toward the dining table. “You want tea? We’ve got chamomile, peppermint, some weird mushroom thing my mom’s into.”

“I’m good.” Reed sat slowly.

He scanned the room, slow and quiet. Then cleared his throat.

“I’m here on behalf of Margot. She asked me to … help facilitate some clarity. She cares about you, obviously. This isn’t … easy for her.”

Scott set down the mug and folded his hands. He didn’t interrupt.

“She’s feeling like she needs space,” Reed continued, trying to keep his voice even. “Time. Distance. Not because of anything dramatic, necessarily. Just a growing difference in direction. She thought it would be healthier to—”

“Outsource the breakup?” Scott said. Not sarcastically. Just … observing.

“Not really outsourcing,” Reed said. “More like… third-party emotional logistics.”

Scott blinked once. “That’s worse.”

From the back of the house, a woman’s voice floated in, bright and domestic. “Scotty? Who’s here, honey?”

Reed’s shoulders tightened before he could stop them.

Scott raised his voice a notch, cheerful on autopilot. “Just a guy Margot knows.”

A pause.

“The breakup guy?” the voice asked, like it was a kind of contractor.

Scott looked at Reed, searching for the right label. Then, helplessly, he tried the one Reed had just given him.

“Yeah,” Scott called back. “He’s… doing the emotional logistics.”

Silence held, thick and immediate.

From the kitchen, one quiet, baffled: “Oh.”

Reed swallowed. “It sounds less…,” he started, then gave up because there was no version of the sentence that didn’t sound like a felony.

The oven beeped again.

Scott picked up his mug again.

He took a sip like it was something to do with his mouth while his life rearranged itself.

“I thought we were maybe getting better,” he said. “Guess not.”

Reed studied him. There was no tantrum. No defensiveness. Just a tender, unhealed heartbreak.

“She okay?” Scott asked. “I mean. Is she safe? Happy?”

Reed blinked. “She will be. That’s the point.”

Scott nodded, a private gesture. “Tell her I hope she’s okay.”

A beat.

“And if she needs anything,” he added, same tone, like he was talking about returning a borrowed ladder, “I’m here.”

And that was the moment. Reed felt it—a slight shift under the ribs. A crack in the part of him that stayed sealed off.

He hated that.

Then Scott stood. Walked to the counter. Picked up a plate.

“My mom made these,” he said, offering it. “Banana oat … somethings. She’s experimenting again.”

Reed stared at the plate. Took one. “Thanks.”

It immediately crumbled a little in his fingers, like it was also trying to leave.