Now I spend the rest of the night with the lonesome duty of putting together a bed frame that I bought on Craigslist (from a promised “bedbug-free” home, though I 100 percent You-Tubed how to inspect it for myself) on my own. I hammer it together and watch the miraculous science of a tightly packed wad inflating into a full-size mattress in mere minutes, trying not to think about how this is the most excitement my bed has seen in months. And when I put on my new sheets and lie on it that night, I try to focus on the fact that my couchhead days are over, instead of focusing on the empty stretches of time ahead mirrored by the empty space beside me.

* * *

I’ve been at the café for almost four hours the next day before Zoey deigns to walk in. Thank God. It’d be an utter waste to have gotten here early—again—without the satisfaction of watching her mark up her Table Champion sheet. Besides, I’ve been feeling mopey this morning and I could use a little boost, even if it comes in the form of winning a truly inane game that nobody except the two of us even knows exists (though that’s not entirely true: Evelynn has obviously begrudgingly been keeping track too).

I settle into my chair a little more, purposely making it scrape across the tile floor. She glances my way, but only for the briefest of moments, and with no reaction. That’s when I notice that she’s on the phone.

“Saturday? I’m . . . I’m free. I mean it’s my b . . .” Zoey gets in line behind the counter. There is one person in front of her, a portly, middle-aged man, and he is giving his order loudly to Evelynn. Zoey scoots a little to the side and cups her phone. “No. Of course it’d be great to see you,” Zoey mumbles, only she doesn’t sound like she means a word of what she’s saying.

Mr. Outdoor Voice has just finished booming out his order and steps aside, clearing the way for Zoey. “Could you just hold on one second, Dad?” She blinks up at Evelynn, looking as if she doesn’t remember why she even went up there in the first place.

Evelynn waits a moment before she asks, “Usual? Medium drip?”

“Yes,” Zoey says and then, after scanning the glass counter, “actually, no. I’ll also get that quiche Lorraine. And, um, a slice of zucchini bread. And a mini red velvet cupcake. And . . . what’s a vookie?”

“Vegan cookies,” Evelynn responds.

“Yeah, sure. Three of those.”

Evelynn grabs her tongs and starts putting the baked goods on a plate while her coworker begins to heat up the quiche.