Aisha cringes and slides her coffee mug away before its skunk scent can infiltrate her innocent nose.

We look at each other and laugh. “What is wrong with him?” she ponders.

“Why send champagne at all if you’re not going to buy a tasty one?” I cry.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but I have it on pretty good authority that Sweet Nothings won’t last the year,” Aisha says. “It’s heading toward an Old Yeller solution at this point.”

“What makes you say that?” I joke. “Was it the last ten e-mails?”

“What will you do if it goes under?”

“I have no idea. I was supposed to be in New York to find my own voice and work on original material, but every time I open my script file, my whole body tenses up. I’ve been miserable trying to force it. My old boss doesn’t think I’m good enough to revise her work and that’s the real reason she fired me. You want to know the saddest part? I only just figured it out. Like, an hour ago.” I laugh ruefully. “Talk about clueless.”

“Wait, did she actually say that to you?”

“She didn’t have to. And it sucks because editing and giving notes and bringing out the best in people’s writing is my favorite thing in the world. It’s exhilarating to shape someone’s work like that. As crazy as Sweet Nothings is, that part of the job I loved. Now I just have to find a way of making a living at it.”

“That’s the big question, isn’t it? How to make it viable.”

“Are you able to make a living from photography?”

“I’m getting there,” she says. “It doesn’t always go smoothly but I’m learning as I stumble. But the way I think about it, I can take a job I hate and try to learn to like it, or I can do something I love and try to become great at it. I mean, what better way is there to spend our lives, really?” She shrugs. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy, of course.” She checks the time on her phone. “Shoot, I gotta run, but next time we’ll drink something that isn’t from the ninety-nine-cent store, okay?”

“Good plan.” We hug good-bye, and a couple of hours later, I’m still sorting through what she said.

Underneath my jealousy over Bree and Jude’s intimacy, I feel proud. I got them together, I shaped that romance. My words did that.

What else can my words do?

On a whim, I sign up for a free website platform and begin typing.

Hmm, what to call it . . . A to Z Edits? No, Z to A. For Zoey Abot.