I’ve given up by this point on convincing her I never went to prison. But Sonia casually recommending a mental health app to who knows how many followers worries me. “Is your friend a certified professional?”

“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t recommend her app otherwise.”

“Is she a colleague?”

“No,” Sonia scoffs. “Audrey didn’t go to college. As if going to some big-name school gives you a license to tell people what to do with their lives! Besides, Audrey’s max zen—she’s the best yoga instructor in New York. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of her.”

Evidently, Sonia missed the part where I told her I was a psychologist. I’m starting to doubt she heard much of anything that came out of my mouth. “I wouldn’t trust mental health issues to someone without a degree,” I warn. “And neither should your followers.”

“Audrey’s app is more about working on yourself through self-consciousness and meditation. I’ll send you the link, but sorry, I have to go now if I want to catch anything decent at that sale. All the best items disappear in the first ten minutes. You wouldn’t believe what a jungle it is out there.”

To avoid being pity-hugged again, I take a step back and wish her good luck with the flash sale.

Once Sonia is gone, I slump down in my seat, mentally exhausted after that disaster of a date. Once I recover, I search the room for a server to ask for the bill. I catch one’s gaze and make a pen-writing-on-paper gesture. He nods at me, letting me know he understood.

I risk a glance at Vivian, and am surprised to find her staring right back, a poorly concealed half-smile pulling at her lips. Medusa can’t resist; she wrinkles her nose and gives me a mocking double thumbs up.

I ignore the provocation and look away, still waiting for that server. The sooner I can leave, the better.

In the meantime, her companion returns and sits back at the table, just as their bill arrives. Medusa must’ve asked for it while I was saying goodbye to Sonia. Guess she’s as eager as me to get out of here.

Windbag looks at the check, but makes no move to take it, so Vivian, with a forced smile, grabs the leather folder, declaring, “Let’s split it, shall we?”

“By all means, I’m not paying for this excrementitious meal on my own.”

Vivian’s face falls while her cheeks color, and it’s my turn to silently laugh.

“The steak was thirty dollars,” the literary artist continues, taking his wallet out of his pocket.

Thirty-one dollars, Mr. Cheap, I correct him in my head.

He produces a twenty and a ten and drops them on the table. “For my part.”