Rogue Ever After (The Rogue Series Book 7)

by Tamsen Parker

  In classic Raina fashion, it took Jasper moving two hundred and sixty miles away before she realized that she had fallen in love with her best friend.

  It wasn’t like she could be mad about it. She had plenty of time before he moved that she could have realized that she didn’t just love Jasper platonically.

  Almost two decades, in fact.

  But no. Her heart had to wait through school—elementary school, the hellscape that was middle school and high school, and then four years of college, without having realized that she would never love anyone the same way she loved Jasper.

  It’s not like she didn’t know she loved him. She did. But she thought it was just best friend love. You know. Just your run of the mill, would take multiple bullets to make sure that nobody hurt him, kind of love.

  In retrospect, she really should have figured it out sooner. But romantic relationships were really not her forte. At all.

  Well, relationships in general weren’t really her forte.

  I’m having an existential crisis again, she texted Jasper.

  He answered almost immediately. I thought we already agreed that it’s not ‘again’ if you’ve been having an existential crisis since I met you.

  The problem with having the same best friend for that long is they knew how to call you out on all of your bullshit, mostly because they probably remembered when you started on said bullshit.

  What’s the existential crisis about this time? Jasper asked.

  You, Raina didn’t text.

  Just the usual bullshittery and shenanigans, she replied instead.

  Just getting pulled into a meeting now with Mel. Can you put your existential crisis on pause for a few hours? And we can dissect it in as much detail as you want later? Jasper asked.

  Obvs. I’m going to beat up the espresso machine in your honor, Raina responded.

  You’re the BEST, Jasper replied.

  She really wasn’t the best. Hell, she wasn’t any superlative at all, not a positive one or a negative. Which technically was good?

  But there was a part of her that wanted to be...something that would deserve a superlative. Or just a lative. (Not that that was a thing, but.)

  It was the curse of the former Gifted Child she was—everyone had expected the world from her and hadn’t bothered to hide their disappointment when she turned out decidedly mediocre.

  Here she was.

  Raina Passmore. Twenty-seven years old, with nothing to show for her collective decade since high school but a faded bachelor’s degree, a seemingly insurmountable pile of student loans, a decent number of followers on Twitter (but not enough to help if she had some medical emergency and needed to GoFundMe her medical bills), and three plants that she had managed to keep alive for the better part of almost five years.

  Besides Jasper, her student loans, and her job, Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail were the things she’d had the longest.

  “Medium coffee for Marvin!” Sanveer called, snapping Raina out of her thoughts.

  She grabbed a cup, and filled it up with coffee for Marvin, hoping today wasn’t the day that Marvin continued his endless monologue about neighborhood infrastructure.

  “Here, Marvin,” she said, setting the cup down on a saucer on the counter.

  “Thanks, Raina,” Marvin said, sitting down at the counter, a sure sign that he would indeed continue his endless monologue about neighborhood infrastructure.

  Raina glanced at the clock. Only forty-five minutes left on her shift. She could handle forty-five minutes of Marvin’s feelings about infrastructure.

  It’s not like she had much of a choice.

  * * *

  Raina didn’t get around to texting Jasper until after she had collapsed in a heap on her couch after checking all the plants. Her three, and her neighbor Hannah’s plants. Hannah was off on some very extended business trip thing (honestly, she hadn’t been super clear on where she was going), and Raina was taking care of her plants, too. And since Hannah was going to be gone for a few months, Raina was house-sitting, which meant the occasional change of scenery, and a nice chunk of extra income until Hannah came back.

  Their apartments were almost identical in size, but Hannah’s looked like a real adult apartment, and Raina’s apartment looked like it was inhabited by children who were pretending to be adults.

  Harin had recently switched from working the day shift to working the night shifts at the local hospital, which meant that for all intents and purposes, Raina didn’t have a roommate. Which was both wonderful and terrible.

  Having her own uninterrupted space was freeing until her insecurities realized she had nobody to distract her from them all. And then it sucked.

  She pulled open her laptop, and sighed. Her existential crisis from that morning hadn’t gotten any better. If anything, it was spiraling. And since she was in serious need of comfort, she made herself toaster oven grilled cheese (real grilled cheese would mean having to do dishes again) and turned on an episode of Planet Earth.

  Truly, she was the paragon of all things adult.

  Today in things I did at work while you were in a meeting, she texted Jasper as the episode began. I hung up a sign with all of Mel’s office numbers, and a note that while you used to hang out here, we do not have any more of a direct line to Mel than they do if they just called the offices.

  It took Jasper a few minutes to respond. LOL.

  Jasper had taken to LOL like a fish to water back in middle school AOL chatrooms, and never looked back.

  You LOL, Raina responded. I have to listen to Marv argue about neighborhood infrastructure while I make him his coffee.

  Regular coffee in a medium cup doesn’t take long.

  Raina laughed. That doesn’t stop him from complaining. I should start writing the Congressperson’s office number on his cups in hopes he calls you instead of soliloquying to me. To me? At me? IDK.

  She curled deeper into the couch, under her mountain of fuzzy blankets, and tried not to cry when the baby polar bear came on screen. And, as usual, failed miserably.

  Damn baby polar bears.

  Her phone buzzed.

  Dictionary.com says its soliloquizing.

  That sounded wrong. But a quick Google search, and Jasper wasn’t lying. ...I don’t know how I feel about that.

  And re: Marvin—he probably thinks you’re hitting on him.

  Ew. Marvin was around the same age as her grandparents, ie, far too old for that to be flattering at all. Well, if you get a call from him asking me on a date, we’ll know for sure.

  Her phone buzzed, letting her know that Jasper was FaceTiming her. She made a face, and answered. “What’s wrong with texting, Jas?”

  “I’m lazy, and I wanted to see your face,” he responded, making her heart skip a beat.

  Skip an actual beat.

  Hell, she really had to work on her Twitter following if this shit was going to happen on the regular. She didn’t need Harin to tell her the whole ‘heart skipping an actual beat’ thing wasn’t healthy.

  “And now you’ve seen it,” she responded.

  Jasper paused. “Were you crying? What happened?”

  “I wasn’t crying,” Raina lied. “I’m just tired.”

  Jasper laughed. “Bags under your eyes don’t look the same as your eyes after you cry.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you watching Planet Earth again?”

  Goddamn, she couldn’t hide anything from him. “And what if I am?”

  “You know there are other animal documentaries,” Jasper pointed out. “Ones that might not make you cry?”

  Raina rolled her eyes. “It was hormones, you asshole. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything to you.”

  “If you say so,” said Jasper, who was entirely right.

  Crying about a baby polar bear when you were PMSing was one thing. Crying about the polar bear every single time you watched the documentary, no matter where your period app said you were hormonally, was another thing entirely.

  “Okay,
Mr. I Cried When NASA Officially Declared Opportunity's Mission Over,” Raina retorted.

  “I did,” Jasper agreed, smiling. “No shame. I miss her.”

  “I know,” Raina said. She reached to turn the volume down on the laptop. “What’s up?”

  “You tell me,” Jasper replied. “You’re the one with an existential crisis today.”

  “And you said it doesn’t count as existential if it’s continuous,” Raina pointed out. “Which, is probably true. Anyway, you had a meeting with the Congressperson today, which I’m sure is more interesting than the same stupid shit I worry about.”

  Jasper shrugged. “Honestly, not really.” He bounced slightly, and Raina could see the outline of his bed. “What’s the crisis today, RayRay?”

  “It’s just crap. I’m fine, don’t worry,” Raina said. “Seriously. The same crap since January, which means nothing’s changed, and if you still want to listen to me rehash all of this tomorrow, we can talk about it then. But I can probably have both sides of the conversation with myself at this point. So could you.”

  Jasper laughed. “That’s a possibility.” He yawned. “Why am I so tired?”

  “...Because it’s after midnight, and you wake up with the sun?” Raina suggested. “You know, the whole ‘go to the gym before work’ thing you’ve insisted on doing since you were fifteen?”

  “Oh, right, that.” Jasper yawned again. “And I’ve been going to work early and staying late this week, because of this upcoming resolution we’re working on, which means I’ve been going to the gym earlier.”

  Raina raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “How early do you go to work?”

  “Not really that much earlier,” Jasper said, and she knew he was lying. “Don’t worry, I’m sleeping. And anyway, we’re announcing the resolution soon, so things will calm down a bit.”

  Which sounded like complete and total bullshit, but Raina worked as the manager of a coffee shop, not for a member of Congress, so she had no idea.

  “Go to sleep now,” Raina replied. “FaceTime me tomorrow during your lunch.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Jasper?”

  Jasper shrugged. “Not sure if I’m going to be taking a real lunch.”

  “Then text me.”

  “That I can do.” Jasper yawned again. “I hope your essistential crisis gess better.” His eyes were nearly shut.

  “Jasper, go plug in your phone and set your alarms.”

  “Shhh.”

  Raina sighed. “Jasper,” she yelled.

  “I’m up,” he said, very clearly not awake.

  “Charge your phone and set your alarms,” she repeated. Jasper could carry full conversations while fast asleep, and remembered none of it the next day. It was a talent that she envied, but that also scared her a little.

  “Doin’ that now.” His finger swiped across the screen, and then the phone clattered next to him. “Love you,” he mumbled.

  Raina sighed. “Love you, too,” she said, and hung up, before she said anything incriminating.

  What a joke. She had told him she loved him.

  Granted, it was the same thing she always told him.

  But still.

  She meant it differently now.

  * * *

  The first few hours of the morning shift were always the busiest, and left Raina no time to think about anything other than making sure everyone who walked into the shop walked out with some sort of caffeinated beverage and without an angrier attitude than they had walking in.

  No time to think about anything else, just coffee and smiling and changing out cups and bags and reheating pastries and refilling the milk pitchers, over and over and over.

  But today was Wednesday, which meant today during lunch, Raina was going to call the Congressperson’s office.

  It wasn’t her least favorite thing to do, but it was definitely on the top of her list.

  Raina refilled the main coffee machine, and took the rest of the bag of beans back to the storeroom, where she fired a quick text to Jasper.

  What time are you going to be answering the phones today?

  Jasper was a Congressional aide, which meant for the most part he wasn’t actually handling phone calls. But the Congressperson’s rule for all their offices was that everyone had to take at least one shift a week answering phones, to make sure they didn’t forget who they were working for. Jasper’s shift was on Wednesdays.

  And Raina couldn’t have been more thrilled once she heard that. She had social anxiety, which reared its ugly head when it came to any and all phone calling. Texting was one of the best things that happened for Raina’s anxiety. But you couldn’t just text your member of Congress.

  She knew there were ways to send faxes or emails to the Congressperson, and she had started with that, two years ago. Her Congressman at the time didn’t seem to care much for any of his constituents, and his staff members...well, they sucked.

  But it didn’t seem like enough. There were bills being passed that were destroying the lives of people she loved, laws that made sure the Earth wouldn’t be completely fucked in the next few decades were overturned, and Raina had felt useless.

  There are people dying, and you can’t make a phone call? She had asked herself. Which really made no sense at all, because there wasn’t a reason for her to be comparing the two of those things, but her brain and her overwhelming sense of guilt didn't really give a shit. Which led to things like pushing herself into calling the office of her Congressional representative once a week, to hold off said overwhelming guilt of not doing enough.

  It had gotten easier in time—not because she got used to it, she definitely had not, but because in November, her district got their shit together and had voted the last asshole out of office. Her weird-ass, confused-all-the-pundits, did-whatever-they-wanted-to district had looked at their Congressman, at his spectacularly shitty voting record, did a little more digging and realized just what a feckless piece of crap he was, said “fuck it”, and elected the first non-binary Congressperson in American history. And Jasper, who had been working for the Congressperson since the beginning of their campaign, had packed up his life and moved to Washington, D.C., to work there.

  Which made Raina’s weekly phone calls easier, and the rest of her life, not so much.

  Her phone buzzed. Lemme check the schedule and I’ll let you know. I’m going to be in meetings for most of the day.

  K, thanks.

  The morning rush had slowed, and now the only people still in the store were the ones who were sitting at tables with their breakfasts, reading newspapers, scrolling through their phones, or working on their laptops. Which meant after the next round of refilling all the milk pitchers, triple checking all the machines, and checking on how much cold brew was left, Raina would have time to draft her script for her weekly phone call.

  That was one thing she had learned from the internets’ therapists—if you knew what you wanted to say before you called, had a really clear idea of exactly the conversation you wanted to have, it would be easier to have the conversation over the phone.

  Raina's phone script was the audio version of the email she would have sent to the Congressperson, and as long as whoever answered the phone didn’t start asking questions, she would be fine.

  The person in charge of scheduling was called into an emergency meeting with the Congressperson, Jasper texted. As of now, I think I’m going to be doing my usual hours, but if you’re working then, you can always call the local office. Deanna is usually the person who answers the phone there. You know her, right?

  I guess, Raina replied.

  You can always call after the offices are closed, if you don’t want to talk to anyone.

  Raina laughed. Voicemails were even worse than talking to real people.

  Voicemails are the worst. I’ll just keep rerecording the message until I just hang up without actually leaving a message.

  “Raina, we’re running out of postcards on the front des
k,” Joaquin said. “Are there more in the back room?”

  “Yeah, in the box under the desk,” she replied. “Didn’t we just refill two days ago?”

  “A bunch of high schoolers came in yesterday to study for the Regents, and all decided to write some postcards,” Joaquin responded. “And then they found out about the political punch card, and they went hard with those postcards.”

  Raina shrugged. “As long as they followed the postcard rules, they get their free coffees.” She pulled out her phone and set a reminder to pick up more postcards after she got off work.

  “I checked before I punched any cards. Some of them were really well-written.” Joaquin reached into his pocket for a folded-up piece of paper. “I got a list of the students that maybe we can talk to about contributing to the bulletin board? I know a few of them seemed really into it.”

  “Perfect. Point them out to me if they come back in, okay?” Raina asked, scanning the list. “And if I’m not here, tell them to talk to me the next time they’re here and we’ll work something out.”

  “Great.” Joaquin headed back out to the front of the shop, leaving Raina to finish writing her phone script for the day. She would call later.

  * * *

  The next time a journalist wrote a longform article about millennial burnout, they were going to use Jasper Kazan’s picture as the example of what exactly that looked like.

  It was only three o’clock, but it felt like he’d been at work for eighteen hours already. At least his phone shift was going to be over soon.

  And it was Wednesday. Jasper looked down at his notes and smiled. The world was going to hell, he had to listen to one of the constituents rant about how the Congressperson was going to hell and how either you were a man or a woman and those were the only options for a lot longer than he wanted to (granted, that was just any time at all), but Raina had called.

  It wasn’t like he was a parent—as a Congressional staff member, there was nobody telling Jasper that he couldn’t have a favorite constituent.

  Because he did, and her name was Raina Passmore, and she was his best friend in the entire world. (And yes, he knew saying that made him sound like he was five. But she was his best friend. So he didn’t give a shit.)