“I’m so hungry,” says Celine a couple of hours later, “and we have nothing in the fridge. I should’ve prepared something earlier, when I still had the energy.”

“I can go grab something,” I offer.

“Pasticcio is open late. We can have dinner there when we’re done,” says Ethan.

“Are you crazy? You can’t get a table at Pasticcio tonight. Let’s do Taquitos on Ocean. Eliza will find us something. She owes me for the Porsche.”

I give her a questioning look. “I fixed her car a few months ago for a fraction of what everyone else asked and in half the time. Of course she didn’t tell her dad it was me, because he would’ve had the Porsche checked and double-checked to make sure I didn’t break anything.”

So she does fix cars; it’s not just a distant dream. She just does it off the record in a way. She just can’t get herself to commit to it, just like I can’t with my writing. And she lacks confidence in her skills, in herself, just like me. Who would’ve thought?

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Taquitos is loud and suffocating, but if you insist—”

“I do. We’d waste time with your fancy Italian place and end up eating fast food.”

He shrugs.

It’s past midnight when we finally close Café Azure and walk the three streets that separate us from the Mexican restaurant.

As much as I don’t like to admit it, Ethan was right about the restaurant. The music is loud, and with over seventy or eighty people in one room, the constant noise of chatter and forks hitting the plates is mind-numbing.

We order, and the food takes forever to arrive. We all get margaritas, which are 99.9 percent water and lime juice, and 0.1 percent tequila and orange liqueur. I feel I would’ve needed the exact opposite proportions after today. It’s been a long day.

There’s an awkward silence, which I wasn’t expecting. Celine seems too tired to be her usual self and compensate for me staring at my glass and Ethan is zoning out. I don’t know why it’s so hard to talk to him. It’s like I feel awkward because I admitted interest in his work. And he’s not saying anything either. Does he think I’m some sort of groupie?

Celine takes another sip of her margarita. “My God, we should’ve brought our own tequila bottle,” she says and starts laughing.

“I was thinking the same,” I say. “A bit more would’ve been nice.”

Ethan looks up from his glass. “Tough day?” he asks her.

“Kind of. My meeting in San Francisco was pretty unpleasant.”

I look at her and realize what a crappy person I am. That’s why she was in such a bad mood, and I didn’t even ask her about it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“I doubt it would help,” she says, taking yet another sip from her drink.

“What’s going on?” I ask.