“She’d love a ride!” Ari bulldozes, using the power of her positivity to nudge me toward Andrew. Then she literally nudges me, with her elbow. I’m stronger than her, though, and firmly rooted in place. “In fact, you know what I think Ellie really needs after today? A drink.”

Andrew smiles and smolders. “I would love to buy you a drink.”

I sigh. I would not love that. I just want to curl up in bed and cry for an indeterminate length of time. I want to take off my hard pants and my bra, and I want to eat all the things. I want to sketch today out in panels until it all seems more comic than tragic, upload the fictionalized version of my life to Drawn2 so the reality feels less painfully real.

But I think about Ari’s elbow in my lower back and her voice asking is this serving you? I think about proving to Meredith that I am not still hung up on a girl who once twirled me in circles in the snow on Christmas Eve. I think about destroyed life plans and broken pieces and being paralyzed by my inability to put it all back together.

When Ari nudges me again, I let my feet move toward Andrew. “Actually, a drink sounds great.”

Andrew gives me a look I can’t quite parse before he breaks into a grin. “Perfect. Drinks it is.”

See, Meredith? I think as Andrew flashes me that charming smile. I’m totally over her.

Chapter Four

Andrew drives a Tesla, which seems unnecessary.

When we get to his car, he opens the passenger-side door for me, which also seems unnecessary, but kind of nice.

Once I’m nestled into the leather seat, the absurdity of the situation begins to dawn on me. I’ve agreed to a date (is this a date?) with Roastlandia’s landlord—Portland’s “Thirty Under Thirty” local celebrity, a man who is a total stranger to me outside of his coffee order. He navigates the Tesla away from the curb, and I can’t seem to figure out what to do with my hands, or where to put my shoulder bag, or what the hell I’m supposed to say.

Blessedly, Andrew breaks the silence first. “I’m sorry about the promotion. That sucks.”

That sucks is not the expression of condolence I expect from a Burberry coat. “Thanks. It’ll be okay. Probably. Somehow.”

“You know, I haven’t had the best day, either….”

My shoulder bag is still on my lap, and I give it a tight hug. “Yeah. I’m so sorry about your grandpa.” As soon as I get the words out, they feel empty and generic, a useless platitude.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Andrew says with a one-shoulder shrug. “He was actually a total bastard.”