“But now, the challenge is updating my business plan to reflect all of that, and also refining my elevator pitch, and also, praying that I don’t sweat off my full-coverage foundation tomorrow, because my skin is not in good enough shape to pitch a skincare company,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Her skin has improved since the last time I saw her, but it’s not exactly clear. The red blotches are only half-faded. I wince.

“So I can’t exactly help you with that, but let’s work on your elevator pitch. Practice on me. Pretend I’m—what’s her name? The investor you’re meeting with?”

“Cecelia Sundquist,” Carmen breathes, like it’s the name of her lord and savior. “I think she might go by Cece. Should I call her Cece?”

“I don’t know. Use Cecelia just to be safe. Pretend I’m her. Pitch me.”

She does—quietly and awkwardly so that the people at the neighboring tables can’t even hear.

“Again,” I encourage. “Louder. You got this.”

She runs through the pitch again, and this time she sounds a little more solid. But the wording is off. It takes me a minute to figure out what’s wrong, but the third time Carmen runs through the thirty-second speech, I’ve got it.

“Stop, stop, stop. You keep saying ‘I think.’ You don’t just think this is a good idea, it is objectively a good idea,” I point out.

She tilts her head, unconvinced. “If it were a really good idea, wouldn’t someone more qualified already have done it?”

“Come on. Don’t discredit yourself. Show me your lines. Let’s edit this together.”

We workshop her pitch, and then I listen carefully as she runs through it over and over again. By the eighth run-through, her delivery is confident and clear. Hell, if I didn’t have money problems of my own right now, I’d give her a sweet chunk of change to turn her business idea into a reality.

“You nailed it,” I tell her.

She slouches forward over the table. “Ugh. Yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah. Want to do it one more time so I can film you?”

She shakes her head. “I mean, do you think this is all going to work? To the point where I could leave my job and do this full time?”

I hesitate. I want to make sure I say the right thing.

“It’s just so much . . . effort,” she continues. “And there’s no guarantee that any of this could pan out, like it did for you.” A wrinkle shoots up between her brows, like she’s suddenly worried she said the wrong thing. “Not that you and Sophie didn’t do a killer amount of prep work.”