I head in, pull up the barstool next to her, and wait for her to notice me. Ten seconds pass and she’s still typing on her phone. She’s apparently done with the fingernails and has moved to pistoning one of her legs up and down a mile a minute. I reach over and take a bite of one of her tacos. She still doesn’t notice. The bartender does notice though, and I mouth the word “sister” to him with a shrug and a roll of my eyes. He nods and smiles and pantomimes giving me a drink. I point at Vera’s michelada, and within moments, I’ve got one of my own in front of me. There’s only half a taco left when Vera finally looks up.

“Hey! Hey!” She looks like she’s about to throat-punch the taco-stealer and then, when she realizes it’s me, she looks like she’s about to titty-twist the taco-stealer.

“At first I was just waiting to see how long it would take for you to notice me, but then the tacos were really good,” I say with a shrug.

She mumbles something that I can almost guarantee involves a creative way of making me see stars and then motions to the bartender for another plate of tacos.

“You a little busy there?” I ask, motioning toward her phone. “You didn’t notice I was here for like ten straight minutes.”

And just like that, the obstinate, irritated expression on her face melts away and concern furrows her brow. “Yeah. I was emailing with one of the organizers of that expo I’m doing next week. And I guess I’m a little stressed about it.”

“Stressed why? Are things getting messed up?”

She glares at me. “No, nothing is getting messed up. It’s just a lot to coordinate and I want to make sure that everything is perfect.”

“Sure.” She’s prickly, irritated again, and I’m not exactly sure why. “Look, if you need help with anything . . .”

“I don’t need help,” she says immediately. “I can do it on my own. I am doing it on my own.”

“Okay,” I acquiesce. Vera is normally a very easy person to get along with. She’s funny and loose and open. But when it comes to her new business, a care package subscription service, she’s tense and closed-off and, apparently, unwilling to accept help of any kind.

A minute of silence passes, both of us sipping our drinks, when finally, Vera sags at the shoulder and turns to me. “What if . . .” she starts. “What if, for once, you weren’t the perfect one?”