“I know. I know. We all just about lost our heads reading the script. We were so excited,” he said. “I know Phoebe’s above it all.”

“A hater,” I agreed.

“I’m not a hater,” said Phoebe. “It’s just not exactly my cup of tea. I’m sort of surprised you like Power Jam, Celia.”

“Why?” I said.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like your style necessarily.”

“What would my style be?”

“Sixty Minutes?”

“SIXTY MINUTES! How boring do you think I am?!”

“That was a joke. I don’t know what kind of stuff you’d like to watch. Law and Order, maybe. Or, like, Hitchcock.”

“I haven’t watched a lot of Hitchcock,” I said.

“It’s good,” said Oliver.

“So I’ve heard.”

“It surprises me that you’re into something so… fluffy,” Phoebe said.

“But it’s not fluffy; that’s the thing,” I said. “I mean—it’s definitely outrageous, but it’s not shallow. The plotlines are all ridiculous, but the characters all feel so real to me.” Oliver handed me a corner of a homemade Pop-Tart, which he must have ordered and I missed entirely. I accepted. “And ultimately, it’s, like—fun. There’s a lot to be said for fun.”

“Yeah,” Phoebe said. “Speaking as someone who’s been totally consumed by work for the past sixty hours, fun does really matter.”

Our conversation turned and kept turning—we discussed whether the strawberry shortcake or the double-chocolate cookie was better; caught one another up on the latest exploits of Oliver’s director (she was last seen dancing on a table at a bar in town—“my agent owes me for doing this show,” Oliver said); and how I’d gotten much better on the sewing machine with Phoebe’s help. It was the perfect lunch, and we left feeling stuffed and happy.

“Would you all mind waiting for me for two seconds?” I asked as we headed back to the car. “I want to buy some stuff to bring back home.”

“Sure,” said Phoebe. “Take your time.”

I made my way back into the storefront and purchased a sourdough loaf, which looked so delicious it might send gluten-free Touchstone into tears. I was on my way out when I saw her walk in: Jess Orlando, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

“Hey,” she said to me. “I know you. Celia, right? Ros’s friend?”

I couldn’t believe she remembered me. Both our meetings had been so brief.

“Oh, hi,” I said. “How’s it going? Is Ros with you?”

“No, they’re back at the shop,” Jess said. “Take a look at this, though. Ros built this bouquet.”

She showed off the bouquet to me, a mix of poppy reds and oranges and yellows.