I hardly notice the whipped cream that has splattered onto the lens of my Warby Parker tortoiseshell frames—I haven’t been able to wear my contacts since sleeping in them the other night—as I bend down to wipe off my only-looks-expensive purse. That’s when I notice the restaurant worker’s foot has also somehow managed to dislodge the urn from my Birkin. Decker is not in my bag anymore. Where the hell did he go?

I push back in my chair and take a quick peek under the table, as though I’m attending to the mess of whipped cream as the waitstaff swarms over to the table to begin the cleanup process. I can see that the urn is halfway between me and Loafers. One ill-timed stretch from him and this thing is going to get lobbed over to James Van Der Beek. Fuck.

I surface back to the top of the table for air, dessert topping still smeared over my lenses, but who cares? I have officially lost my place in the presentation, and there’s no way I can concentrate knowing this urn is floating around like a soccer ball just waiting to be kicked out of play under our table. Zareen notices I’m distracted by more than just the spilled desserts and pulls her second power move in five minutes.

“Oh dear, it looks like my tablet got bathed in pinot noir. Charlotte, do you have a moment to take a look at why this thing isn’t working?”

Monica picks up on Zareen’s distraction tactic and chimes in as well.

“Yes, gentlemen. Why don’t we give the staff a moment to clean up over here a bit. Can I interest you in a port at the bar? Or perhaps a cigar from their case? I hear they have a lovely selection of rare organic Cubans.”

With the four of them making their way to the bar, I scurry over to grab the urn, put it back in my bag, and lodge my bag tightly under my chair, wrapping the straps around the leg so as to avoid a repeat performance.

“Sorry about that, Zareen. Now, what’s the matter with your iPad?” I ask as I finally wipe the schmutz off my lenses with a cloth napkin.

“Cut the shit, Charlotte. There’s nothing the matter with my iPad. What’s the matter with you, though? Are you feeling okay? What was that?” She puts the back of her hand to my head to feel for a fever.

Maybe I wasn’t as graceful as I thought in retrieving the urn? She’s on to me, and the thought that I may have blown this dinner—as well as my cover—causes my hands to start to tremble.

I quickly shove my hands behind my back. “Not now. Not now. Not now,” I mumble to myself. The air...it’s getting harder to breathe.

“What did you say? Speak up. I can’t hear you, Charlotte. Speak up!”

“I’m sorry. I have to go,” I tell Zareen as I stand up from the chair.