My heart rate speeds up. This could be the escape hatch I’m looking for. I could hightail it back to LA and put an entire country between me and Miles. First I instant message Mary.

Zoey: Should I take a call with Night-Light Films?

I’m not expecting her to get back to me for a while, but they must have broken for lunch at the Roundabout Theatre because two minutes later, my phone dings.

Contrary, Quite: Your choice, just don’t submit notes without a contract. They might be getting ideas from a bunch of writers, keeping the notes, and not hiring anyone. Wouldn’t be the first time. Fuckers.

Zoey: Is it nepotism? Should I feel gross/unqualified?

Contrary, Quite: You should always feel gross and unqualified, all the time. NO, of course not! Nepotism is the lubricant Hollywood runs on. But for the record, I never told them I had a daughter.

As if the tears I’ve shed over Miles the past week weren’t enough, a fresh group gathers in my eyes. It takes some effort to tap out the next letters.

Zoey: Thank you.

Contrary, Quite: I helped get your foot in the door, the rest is up to you. My last piece of advice: Don’t do it the way you think I’d want you to, or the way you imagine I might go about it. They don’t want me. They want the person that edited me. (Don’t worry about my feelings—my ego’s a bounce house.)

Zoey: ♥ Guess what, I’m going to Momofuku today.

Contrary, Quite: Enjoy!

Next thing I know, I’m on the subway—breathing hard, sometimes bending my head down between my legs, but on the subway, nonetheless. In the Financial District I get sidetracked. I visit the Charging Bull statue and Battery Park. I try to do an adult thing and take a wildflower tour in the perennial garden, but the aquatic carousel inside a giant, metallic-and-lavender-hued fish looks more my style (blame the booze or adrenaline, your pick). The colors and light patterns almost trick me into believing I’m underwater. I also feel weightless, which makes me giggle.

Later, at Fuku’s at last, I eat a spicy fried chicken sandwich with vada pav, slaw, and rice pudding, washed down with a strawberry lemon slushie. I relish the meal—so long in coming, but so worth it—taking the time to savor each bite, let the flavors and textures mingle on my tongue. There’s probably a word for it created by mindfulness experts (“slow bites” or something), but today, I’ll just call it “living.” I don’t look at my phone a single time. I don’t take images of the food and post them across social media. I live in the moment, until I’m comfortably stuffed and fully sated.