"Alright," I say, settling back into the couch like a man about to confess crimes. "Season 2, Episode 4. This is where everyone tries to be an adult… and the universe files a complaint."
Bryce lifts her mug. "This is also where I learned your Uncle Marshall copes with heartbreak the way accountants cope with taxes."
You both squint. "Spreadsheets?"
"Spreadsheets," I confirm. "And unfortunately, Barney decided to compete."
---
Season 2, Episode 4
The Excel Prayer and the Gospel of Barney
2006 — Monday Morning, Nyx Co
Mondays at Nyx Co were supposed to feel like power.
Glass walls. Clean lines. Quiet hum of people building things that would end up in millions of hands.
That morning, all I felt was static.
My assistant had my day stacked like a bad game of Jenga: product meeting, retail rollout, investor call, internal audit, lunch I'd pretend to eat, then another meeting that absolutely should've been an email.
I was halfway through a presentation about a new budget laptop line—cheaper parts, better battery, still not embarrassing—when my phone buzzed.
Marshall.
I didn't even open it. I could already hear the tone.
I powered through the meeting anyway, because that's the ugly truth of being "successful": people don't stop needing you just because your friends are emotionally on fire.
When the room finally cleared, Bryce was waiting by the door like she'd been posted there by the universe.
She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, hair pulled up, wearing one of my old hoodies like it belonged to her.
(It did.)
"You ignored three texts," she said.
"I was working," I replied.
"You were dissociating in a conference room," she corrected.
I exhaled. "Fine. What's the damage?"
She held up my phone. "Your best friend is turning sadness into a scheduling system."
I took it and read:
> Marshall: Call at 12:15?
Marshall: Is 12:15 too needy?
Marshall: I made a new tab called "Emotional Maintenance." It's color-coded.
I stared at the screen like it had personally insulted me.
"Emotional Maintenance," I muttered. "He's building a user manual for his feelings."
Bryce nodded. "He thinks if he can organize the pain, it'll behave."
"That's not how pain works," I said.
"That's also not how Marshall works," she replied.
I typed back:
> Me: Meet at MacLaren's tonight. No laptop. No spreadsheet. Beer only.
Three seconds later:
> Marshall: Can I bring a printed copy for reference?
I closed my eyes.
Bryce patted my shoulder. "He's adorable in a tragic way."
"I'm going to burn his printer," I said.
"You'll threaten it," she said. "Then you'll fix it."
I sighed. "Yeah."
---
2006 — MacLaren's, That Night
MacLaren's was loud the way it always was—laughing, clinking glasses, the low roar of people convincing themselves the week wasn't going to eat them alive.
We claimed our booth like it was sacred ground.
Marshall arrived first.
Not alone.
Of course not.
He slid in with a folder tucked under his arm like a student preparing to defend a thesis.
"No," I said immediately.
Marshall blinked. "What?"
"No folder," I repeated. "I said beer only. This is not an intervention for your Microsoft addiction."
"It's not a folder," he protested.
I held out my hand.
He hesitated… then surrendered it like he was giving up contraband.
It was, in fact, a folder.
I opened it.
Inside were printed spreadsheets.
Multiple.
With titles.
WEEKLY CALL SCHEDULE
TIME ZONE OVERLAP OPTIMIZATION
MOOD TRACKER (SELF-REPORTED)
I stared at him.
Marshall stared back, guilty and hopeful.
"Okay," I said slowly, "I want you to hear this with love."
"Okay," he said.
"This is insane."
He deflated. "I knew you'd say that."
"I'm not saying it to be mean," I continued. "I'm saying it because you are trying to control something that can't be controlled."
Marshall's eyes went glassy.
"I'm trying to not lose her," he said quietly.
That line—simple, honest—hit harder than any spreadsheet ever could.
Bryce slid into the booth next to me, warm presence, calm face. She didn't look surprised. She looked ready.
Robin showed up next, coat tossed onto the seat, expression sharp like she'd come straight from a broadcast.
Ted followed half a minute later, slightly breathless, like he'd run here from his own thoughts.
Barney arrived last, grinning like a man who'd never been sad a day in his life.
"Gentlemen," Barney announced, "and ladies. I have created a system."
Everyone groaned in unison.
"What kind of system?" Robin asked, already suspicious.
Barney slapped a small notebook onto the table.
"I call it: The Productivity Pyramid of Success," he said. "Step one: lie. Step two: lie better. Step three: reward yourself with a suit."
Ted blinked. "That's not a system, that's a felony."
Barney waved him off. "Details. The point is: when life becomes chaotic, you simplify. You reduce variables. You eliminate weakness."
He looked at Marshall's printed spreadsheets and his eyes lit up like he'd found a fellow monk in the monastery.
"Eriksen," Barney said reverently, "you have weaponized sadness."
Marshall's mouth tightened. "It's not—"
"It is," Barney insisted. "It's beautiful. But you're missing the most important column."
Bryce leaned forward. "If you say 'sex,' I will throw a coaster at your throat."
Barney smiled. "I was going to say 'sex.'"
Robin threw the coaster. Barney dodged like he'd trained for this exact moment since puberty.
Marshall rubbed his forehead.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted. "I talk to Lily and she sounds… okay. But when the call ends, the apartment is so quiet it feels like it's mocking me."
Ted nodded too fast, like he recognized the feeling.
Robin shot him a look. Ted looked away.
Marshall kept going, voice breaking slightly.
"So I thought if I mapped it—if I scheduled it—if I could see the next call, I wouldn't feel like I was falling off a cliff every time she hangs up."
Silence took the booth for a moment.
Even Barney looked less shiny.
Bryce's voice was soft. "Marshall… the cliff is real. Scheduling doesn't remove it. It just gives you a handrail."
Marshall swallowed. "So… I'm allowed to do some of this?"
"Yes," Bryce said. "Some. Not all. If you turn love into an obligation chart, you'll start resenting her for having a life."
Marshall flinched. "I would never—"
"You won't mean to," I cut in. "That's the danger. Resentment grows in the dark. Quiet. Like mold."
Robin nodded once. "He's right," she said, surprisingly serious. "You don't wake up resentful. You wake up tired. Then it builds."
Ted looked down at his hands like they'd betrayed him.
Barney cleared his throat.
"Well," he said, uncharacteristically careful, "my system can help."
Everyone stared.
"What," Robin said flatly, "does your system do?"
Barney opened the notebook.
"Step one," he said, "you set a rule: No sad alone time. You will always be around people."
Marshall blinked. "That's… not terrible."
Barney nodded. "I know. I surprised myself too. Step two: when you feel the sadness coming, you do an activity that reminds you you're still you."
Ted frowned. "Like what?"
Barney snapped his fingers. "Like laser tag."
Robin stared at him. "Your solution to grief is laser tag."
Barney shrugged. "It's worked for every emotional situation I've ever had. Including taxes."
Bryce sighed. "Okay, not laser tag. But… he's not wrong about the structure."
I leaned back.
"Here's what we're doing," I said, voice firm.
Marshall looked at me like I was issuing a verdict.
"First," I said, "no more printed spreadsheets. If it has to exist, it lives on your computer like a shameful secret."
Marshall nodded slowly.
"Second," I continued, "you pick one daily call that's consistent. One. The rest can be flexible. That way if Lily's in the zone, she doesn't feel like she's breaking a rule by living her life."
Marshall swallowed. "Okay."
"Third," I said, "you stop measuring your love by how often she answers. Sometimes she'll be busy. Sometimes she'll be tired. Sometimes she'll be too happy to talk because she's finally in her element, and that will sting."
His eyes widened, like I'd reached into his chest.
"And that doesn't mean she loves you less," Bryce added gently. "It means she's growing. That's the whole point."
Marshall nodded, eyes wet.
Ted cleared his throat, trying to change the subject before he started feeling too much.
"So," he said too loudly, "how's Lily doing? Like… really?"
Marshall blinked, then fumbled his phone out like it was proof.
"She sent pictures," he said. "She has this tiny studio corner. And she met this girl who paints dolphins."
Robin snorted. "Of course she did."
Marshall smiled for half a second—pure, proud—then it faded.
"She sounds excited," he said quietly. "And I'm happy for her. I am. I just… miss her so much it feels like my ribs hurt."
There it was.
The raw truth under the Excel armor.
Bryce reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"I know," she said. "But listen: ribs heal. And love doesn't die just because it's far away. It just gets… tested."
Marshall nodded like he was trying to believe it.
Barney snapped his fingers again. "Laser tag."
Robin pointed at him. "Stop."
Ted glanced between Marshall and the rest of us, and I could see it: a question he didn't want to ask, because it would make him admit he was scared too.
Bryce saw it as well.
She leaned back, eyes on Ted, voice casual but precise.
"And you two?" she asked, like she was asking about the weather. "How's the 'live in the present' experiment going?"
Ted's face tightened.
Robin's jaw did that tiny clench again.
I watched them both carefully.
Because whatever Marshall was doing—grieving in spreadsheets—Ted was doing something else.
He was trying to pretend the future wasn't standing behind Robin with its arms crossed.
And that, historically, never worked out well for Mosbys.
---
If you say "Part B", I'll continue with:
Ted and Robin's first real argument that isn't loud, just sharp,
Marshall breaking the "no spreadsheet" rule in the saddest way possible,
and Bryce stepping in as the calm adult in the booth while I… do what I do (bad jokes, good instincts, and trying to keep everyone upright).
Yes — it's still novel-style chapters, not bullet summaries. What you're noticing is I pulled back slightly to cover multiple beats in one part (and I even narrated a scene I "wasn't there for," which can feel summary-ish). That's on me.
From here on out, I'll do it like the earlier parts you liked:
Full scenes, written in-the-moment.
No "I wasn't there but…" shortcuts.
Show it happening with dialogue, action, and setting.
Future couch uses Season/Episode labels only (as you asked).
To prove it, here's a proper rewrite of Season 2, Episode 4 — Part B in true chapter form, fully dramatized.
---
I tell you two, leaning back into the couch cushions. "This is where MacLaren's gets that rare kind of quiet that isn't peace… it's just everyone realizing they've been lying to themselves in different fonts."
Bryce hums beside me. "And then the universe hits 'save' on the consequences."
You both groan.
"Don't complain," I say. "You asked for the truth."
---
MacLaren's was packed—Monday-night packed, which meant half the bar was trying to forget they had work tomorrow and the other half was trying to convince themselves they didn't care.
The booth felt like home the second we slid into it: sticky table, dim light, that low hum of laughter and clinking glasses that makes you feel less alone even when you absolutely are.
Marshall sat stiffly in the corner like he didn't know what to do with his hands unless they were holding Lily's.
He'd left the folder at home—after I threatened to staple it to his forehead—but his knee bounced under the table like the spreadsheets were still rattling in his bloodstream.
Robin had her coat draped over the seat beside her, posture straight, eyes sharp. She looked calm in the way storms look calm from space.
Ted sat too close to her and not close enough at the same time. Every few seconds he glanced at her like he was checking she was still real.
Barney sat opposite Marshall, perfectly relaxed, the human embodiment of "consequences are for other people."
Bryce slid in next to me and tucked her leg against mine under the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was. For me, anyway.
She didn't speak at first. She just watched—quiet, present, like she could hear the subtext humming under everyone's words.
That's why when she finally did speak, it landed.
"And you two?" she asked, voice casual but precise, looking at Ted and Robin. "How's the 'live in the present' thing going?"
Ted blinked like he hadn't expected anyone to remember he'd agreed to that.
"It's good," he said too quickly. "It's—yeah. Good."
Robin's smile appeared and vanished like a camera flash.
"We're fine," she said.
Two answers. Same meaning. Different fear.
Barney leaned forward, elbows on the table, delighted. "Ohhhh," he whispered. "Relationship tension. I love this part."
Robin didn't even look at him. "Barney."
He leaned back, unbothered. "I'm just appreciating the drama. Like a classy man. In a suit."
Ted cleared his throat and tried to steer the conversation into safer waters.
"It's just…" he started, then stopped, then started again—classic Ted, trying to draft a perfect sentence while everyone waited. "Sometimes it feels like if I don't think about where this is going, then what are we doing?"
Robin's eyes sharpened. Not angry—focused.
"We're being together," she said. "That's what we're doing."
Ted's fingers tightened around his glass.
"But what if we want different things?" he asked.
Marshall's knee bounced faster, like Ted's question had lit up his own fear and now his body couldn't decide where to put it.
Robin didn't look away.
"Then we deal with it," she said.
Ted swallowed. "Later."
"Yeah," Robin said. "Later."
The word later hung there.
Ted hated later. Later was an unmade bed. Later was uncertainty. Later was the place where his dreams went to get delayed until they died of neglect.
His jaw clenched.
"I'm trying," he said quietly, and for the first time that night, his voice sounded real. "I really am. I'm trying not to do the future thing."
Robin's expression softened by a millimeter. "I know."
"But," Ted continued, and that single word carried everything, "it's hard not to. Because… this matters to me. Where it goes matters."
"It matters to me too," Robin said, firm.
Ted leaned forward, hopeful.
"But not in the same way," she finished.
The hope on his face didn't disappear. It cracked.
Barney made a sound like he'd just watched a plot twist.
Marshall stared at the table, suddenly fascinated by the wood grain.
Bryce's hand slid over my knee under the table, a quiet "don't."
Because I wanted to jump in. I always wanted to jump in. It was my natural habitat—other people's emotional fires.
But this was theirs.
Robin took a breath.
"I'm not trying to be cruel," she said. "I'm not trying to keep you in limbo. I just… I don't want every quiet moment to turn into a negotiation about ten years from now."
Ted's voice came out small. "I'm not negotiating."
Robin's eyebrows lifted. "Ted…"
He stared at her, stubborn.
"I'm just… asking," he insisted.
"And asking," she said gently, "turns into pressure when it never stops."
Ted's throat worked.
"You make it sound like I'm doing something wrong," he said.
Robin looked at him a long moment.
"You're not wrong for wanting a future," she said. "You're wrong if you make me feel like I'm failing you every time I don't want to plan it."
Ted's eyes flicked down, then back up.
"That's not what I—"
"That's how it feels," she cut in, not louder, just sharper.
Silence.
A real one.
The kind that makes you aware of the noise in the bar around you, like it's suddenly too far away.
Marshall cleared his throat.
"I think you guys are great," he blurted, desperate to glue the air back together. "You're together. You're happy. You're… not doing long distance."
Robin's gaze shifted to him, softening instantly. "Thanks, Marsh."
Ted nodded too. "Yeah. Thanks."
Marshall nodded, relieved he'd helped… until his face tightened again.
Because he'd said it.
Not doing long distance.
As if that automatically meant safe.
As if distance was the only thing that could break a relationship.
He looked down at his hands.
"My apartment is so quiet," he said suddenly.
Nobody spoke.
He kept going, voice low like he couldn't stop once he'd started.
"I talk to Lily and she sounds okay. She's excited. She's meeting people. She's… doing what she went there to do." His mouth twitched, half proud, half wrecked. "And then she hangs up, and it's like… the air goes flat."
Bryce leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes kind.
"Marshall…" she said.
He swallowed, blinking fast.
"So I tried to fix it," he admitted. "I tried to… schedule it. Map it. Like if I could see the next call on a calendar, I wouldn't feel like I'm falling every time she says goodnight."
Barney's expression—miracle of miracles—turned almost thoughtful.
"Falling sucks," he said softly, then recovered immediately. "Which is why I never do it. Because I'm amazing."
Robin threw a coaster without looking. It clipped Barney's shoulder this time.
"Ow," he said, offended. "Violence!"
"You earned it," she said flatly.
Marshall's laugh came out broken.
"I hate that I'm like this," he whispered. "I don't want her to feel trapped. I don't want her to feel like she has to report in or I'll… collapse."
"You won't collapse," Ted said, too intense, because he needed Marshall not to collapse. If Marshall collapsed, it meant love wasn't enough. It meant effort wasn't enough. It meant nobody was safe.
Marshall looked at him.
"I might," he admitted.
Ted went still.
Bryce's hand reached across the table and covered Marshall's. Warm. Steady.
"Then we don't let you be alone when it gets bad," she said. "That's not Lily's job from across the country. That's ours. Here."
Marshall blinked at her like she'd just offered him oxygen.
I sat back, watching him absorb it.
Because that was the thing Bryce did: she didn't promise you the pain would stop. She promised you wouldn't drown in it alone.
Barney pointed at Marshall's chest like he was about to give a TED Talk. "I have a solution."
"No," Robin said instantly.
"Yes," Barney insisted. "It's called: No Sad Alone Time."
I blinked. "That's… actually not terrible."
Barney smiled, smug. "I know. It's horrifying. Step two: activity. When you feel sad, you do something that reminds you you're still you."
Ted frowned. "Like what?"
Barney snapped his fingers. "Laser tag."
Robin stared. "Of course."
Marshall sniffed, then laughed a little. "I'm not playing laser tag because my fiancée is in California."
"Coward," Barney said.
Bryce squeezed Marshall's hand. "Not laser tag. But… something. Routine helps. Just not the kind that turns Lily into a checkbox."
Marshall nodded slowly.
I pointed at him. "One daily call. Consistent. The rest flexible."
He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it, because he knew I was right.
"And," I added, "no tracking missed calls like you're running a hostage negotiation."
Marshall winced. "I wasn't—"
Bryce's look stopped him.
He sighed. "Okay. I kind of was."
Ted exhaled like he'd been holding his breath the whole conversation.
Robin shifted in her seat, gaze sliding away for a moment—work brain, escape brain, something.
"Okay," she said, voice lighter, trying to reset. "Can we talk about something else before I start screaming?"
"Yes," I said immediately. "Barney, tell us your dumb pyramid."
Barney lit up. "Gladly."
For a few minutes, he rambled about suits, lies, and "optimizing human interaction" like he'd invented being terrible.
And it worked.
The booth loosened again.
Not fixed.
But… breathing.
Then Robin glanced at the clock on the wall and stood.
"I've got to go," she said.
Ted stood too fast. "I can walk you—"
"No," she said gently, and that single word held a boundary. "I need a little space. I'll see you tomorrow."
Ted nodded like he accepted it, but his eyes didn't.
Robin looked at Bryce. "Good to see you."
"You too," Bryce said. "Text me if you ever need backup."
Robin smirked. "Against Ted's brain?"
"Always," Bryce said.
Robin left.
Ted sat back down slowly, like the air had changed density.
Marshall looked at Ted, then looked away, like he didn't want to see the fear in Ted's face because it mirrored his.
Barney clapped Ted on the shoulder. "Cheer up. At least your girlfriend lives in the same time zone."
Ted didn't laugh.
Barney blinked, thrown. "Okay, wow. You're really sad. That's… gross."
Ted stood abruptly.
"I'm going home," he said.
"Want company?" I asked.
Ted hesitated, pride warring with panic.
"No," he said, and I could tell he meant, I should say no.
Then, smaller: "Maybe… yeah."
Bryce rose too. "We'll walk."
Marshall stayed in the booth, staring at his beer like it was a portal to California.
"You coming?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"I'm okay," he lied. "I just… want to sit a minute."
Bryce's eyes flicked to me again.
Watch him.
I nodded.
We walked Ted home first.
When we came back out, the city wind hit like a slap.
Bryce tucked her arm through mine.
"He's going to go home and open the laptop," she said quietly.
"I know," I replied.
"And he's going to tell himself it's 'practical,'" she added.
"I know."
She squeezed my hand.
"Then we don't let him be alone tomorrow," she said. "No sad alone time."
I sighed, almost smiling.
"Fine," I said. "But not laser tag."
Bryce grinned. "We'll negotiate."
And somewhere in the city, in a quiet apartment that suddenly felt too big for one man, I could already feel the first true test of long distance arriving—soft-footed, patient, relentless.
Not a breakup.
Not a dramatic moment.
Just the beginning of a habit.