No response. I resist the urge to stop and look behind me. I take the corner at full speed, using my palms to ricochet off the wall. I make it to the ground floor, gasping, my chest heaving, only to see the elevator doors open and Miles dart out ahead of me.

Today of all days it decides to work? For him?

“Can we stop for a second?” I call after him, panting.

He’s already out of the building, and a vision of him soaking wet, wearing an Adidas tracksuit jacket the day we shared the big table, enters my brain. He’s a runner. Of course. This is probably a warm-up for him; he won’t even break a sweat.

Even if he weren’t so athletic, my inability to cross the intersection in anything resembling a timely manner will prevent me from winning, but I’m not about to make it easy for him. Winded and sore, I zigzag through pedestrians on the sidewalk, muttering angrily to myself. Acting—whaddaya know—like a New Yorker.

I don’t think I’ve moved this fast since I was nine years old, fleeing “the fuzz” in Manila with my parents after they released a bunch of weasels in a government building connected to President Estrada. It was widely known he’d benefited from a stock manipulation scheme. This act of rebellion was their “audition” to join an underground group, and they passed with flying colors. (Shortly after, Nana issued her ultimatum: This is no way for a child to live. Come with us to California, or let me have her.)

Speaking of California, if Miles and I were there now, I’d have creamed him in a drag race. He probably doesn’t even have a driver’s license.

As predicted, Miles beats me to the café, but to my confusion, he hasn’t yet gone inside. He lingers on the sidewalk, peering in.

“Is it closed?” I gasp as I near him.

“Worse.” He points.

I look through the window. The pregnant mom and toddler from a week ago are back. Correction: The no-longer-pregnant mom, toddler, and newborn, are back, settled in at our table. Er, my table. The table.

Suddenly the race seems winnable.

“I got this,” I say with a smirk. “We’re practically sorority sisters.”

“Yeah, no, she just arrived,” Miles says. “She’s not going anywhere.”

I frown. “Really? Won’t she have to breastfeed soon?” The newborn is wailing its wee head off. The window partially shields us from the sound, but by the looks of the other customers, it’s pretty bad.

“Sure, but she can do it right there,” he reminds me.

My phone shakes with a rapid-fire flurry of texts. Bree.

Tomorrow’s the big night! Pink or green?

Attached are two images of the different lingerie she’s choosing between. Shit!