I shouldn’t respond. It goes beyond my purview as a ghostwriter, and I don’t have time for this. But the idea of her and Jude bumping pretties jolts my nerves.

NOT YET, I text-scream. YOU’LL REGRET IT, TOO SOOOOON

“Are you having a seizure?” Miles asks, leaning over to see what’s got me texting so madly.

I shove my phone away and glare at him. “Did you seriously move to my apartment building so you could set up shop here every morning?”

He looks disgusted. “How was I supposed to know it was yours? The real question is, why have you only gotten the table sixty percent of the time when you live across the street? How did I get it any of the times?”

“Better question: Why can’t you just let me have it?” I shout.

“Why should I?”

“Because I can’t go anywhere else!” I grit out, shame and anger clenching my teeth together.

“Where were you going to meet up with your parents? Cheese?” he replies sarcastically.

“No, they already booked a place,” I reply testily. “In Midtown.”

Thinking of Cheese makes me think of Jude, who would NOT be shitty to me about my fears, which, by the way, do not include my parents. They’re a whole different subcategory of misery. (Jude, who’s about to get laid, unless I can convince Bree it’s not yet the right time.)

“Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” I nudge his shoulder with mine and enter the café.

* * *

Baby Mama clutches her grande latte with tense fingers. She looks like she’s entered a fugue state; the baby’s shrieks haven’t abated but the mom’s vacant gaze seems to imply she’s on a different plane of existence.

“Tough day, huh?” I ask gently.

“I know nobody wants me here,” she says. “But where am I supposed to go?”

“I hear you. I get it,” I say emphatically, hoping she’ll infer that I have kids stashed somewhere, that I’ve been on the front lines too, and maybe mine are grown or at school or—has camp started yet?

“Do you want some help getting them packed up, or . . . ?” I prompt.

“My coffee’s gone cold,” she mutters, to no one in particular.

“Let me get them to reheat it for the road,” I suggest with a sympathetic nod, and reach my hand out for it.

Her response is to pull the mug closer to her chest as though I’m a threat.

I fold a napkin into a passable bunny and turn my back to them, letting the bunny peek out from over my shoulder. I loved origami as a kid and some of the shapes are imprinted in my brain. The baby goes silent with curiosity. The toddler, Nathan, squeals.

“That’s cute,” the mom says tonelessly. “How did you do that?”