“I’ll be okay,” I said, swallowing down the lump in my throat.

“I know you will.” She leaned forward and patted my hand. “Look how well you’ve done since losing your job. You know you don’t need to stay here for my sake, right? I’m on the mend, and you should get back to things.”

And with that, I started to cry. Not dainty, delicate tears, like the ones that had arrived when I saw Anna just minutes earlier. And not the wet, blubbery, messy kind of cry, like what Hayes saw that day on the subway.

This was a full-body, chest-heaving tsunami of a cry, which exploded out of me without warning.

“Franny?” she asked, shifting her body to look at me, her voice alarmed. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve screwed everything up.” My voice came out like a wail, and I pressed my face into my hands. “I tried to launch my own business, and I did that one job, which was amazing. But I haven’t had enough jobs lined up to keep up with bills and rent.”

“But I thought you said on TV—”

“It wasn’t the truth. It just came out. I was embarrassed and nervous, and I just wanted everyone to think I was doing okay. I wanted you to think that.” The words spilled out of me. “I don’t want you to think I’m a failure. I know you already worry about me not having a steadier career.”

She took her free hand and brought it to my chin, lifting my face until our eyes met.

“Francesca Marie Doyle”—her voice was firm—“I’ve spent the last thirty years being in awe of you.”

I sniffled and wiped my nose on my sleeve, and gave her a confused look.

“Occasionally, intimidated too,” she said as she moved her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

Surely, I thought, she was joking. But her face was completely serious.

“Nothing about me is intimidating,” I said, chest heaving.

“Nothing about you is intimidating,” she said back to me, chuckling. “Fran, you’ve known exactly who you were since the day you popped out of me. You worked jobs in high school so you could pay for your own art classes, and then when you got into NYU you were determined to go, even though everyone, including me, told you it’d be easier just to go to UConn and live at home. You moved to New York City at eighteen, and you’ve never looked back. You chose a career you were passionate about, and you’ve made it work. You’ve built a life for yourself—one you love—and you know exactly who you are. That’s something most of us can’t say. So, yeah, sometimes you are intimidating, in the best way possible. And, god, do I love it. I am so proud of you.”