“Unless you’ve somehow managed to get your hands on an invisibility cloak, I’d say so.”

“And to think, I was sleeping that whole time. Having a long, luxurious, good old-fashioned lie-in.” She stretches out her arms in demonstration. “Still think you won?”

I rap the tabletop with my knuckles. “This isn’t fun unless you’re angry about it.”

She sighs. “I think I’m already too emotional to add anger to the mix today. Sorry about them, by the way.” She gestures with the hand that is still clutching her phone.

“Honestly, I’ve always wanted to try out my stringent leftist persona,” I say. “I’d say it suits me.”

She laughs. “Maybe. Except for not really being a Vlad.”

“I could be a Vlad!” I say, sitting down in the chair across from her. “I think you’re being closed-minded.”

“You’re right.” She nods solemnly. “I shouldn’t be so prejudicial about my idea of a Vlad. I apologize.”

“Accepted,” I say.

“Anyway, I wish Vlad could come with me on Saturday when apparently, I’m going to have to have dinner with them.”

“Your parents?” I ask.

She nods.

“Well, if you really mean it . . . he could. In a way.” I’m not sure exactly why I’m offering her this, except that I’ve felt very off the past couple of days and I would love to restore some order to my life, even if it’s in the form of turning my forlorn café nemesis back to my sarcastic café nemesis. Besides, it still stings that I spent $150 on that headset for nothing.

“What are you talking about?”

“I have a way to feed you lines during your dinner. If you want.”

Zoey is staring at me incredulously. “I would think you’re joking,” she says slowly, “but from what little I know of you, that seems like the exact sort of thing you would have.”

I shrug. “I use it for work.”

“Why? Are you a dialogue coach or something?” she asks.

“Something like that.”

“Huh,” she says. “Not what I would’ve pegged you for.”

“And what would you have pegged me for?” This ought to be rich.

“I don’t know. Social media manager for one of those hipster mail order glasses companies?”

“Wow. That’s . . . oddly specific.” Has she actually spent time pondering what I do?

“Anyway,” she says. “I actually write lines for a living too.” I cock my head at her until she clarifies. “Screenwriter.”

“Ah. LA. That makes sense. So, got it. You don’t need help with your dialogue then.” I shrug.

“Yeah, well . . .” She looks down at her closed laptop. “I do a pretty good job for fictional characters and . . . other people. For my own life—not so much.” She looks up at me, eyes glinting in a disarming way. “You know what? I’ll take you up on that offer.”

I stare at her and blink. “You will?”