In the whole wide world, my favorite thing would be a stack of pancakes, the tinny sound of music coming from this crappy old laptop, the humidity in my apartment fogging up the windows. Maple syrup and a full stomach and all the leaves pointing toward the sun. That’s what Sophie makes me feel like.

My stomach hurts again but not because I’m missing Mom. It’s the same feeling I had before. Butterflies but worse. So much worse. It’s the entire monarch migration happening in my diaphragm. Of course, realizing that I’m in love with Sophie Brunet would make me feel sick to my stomach.

Because that’s completely normal.

“Amy?” I jump at the sound of my name. “Hi,” Paul says.

He stands behind Wes’s chair. His expensive-looking peacoat, and a scarf that is undoubtedly cashmere, are sprinkled with snowflakes. “How are you?”

The only good thing about the fact that my face almost always exists in a state of Resting Bitch is that Paul probably can’t tell that I’m scowling at the sight of him since I already looked this way. Regardless, it takes me a beat too long to plaster on the smile one would expect when they see the executive producer of the TV show that’s supposed to save their restaurant.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. Over his shoulder I search for Wes but he’s nowhere to be seen. Of course.

Paul laughs awkwardly. “I work in a building down the street.”

“When you’re not on set.”

“Right.” He glances over his shoulder then leans in. “You’re not here with Sophie, are you?”

The petty part of me wants to whip out my phone and tell him: no but she did send me this photo. This very beautiful photo. Because we’re a thing. Together. And also I’m in love with her. If I’m going by my brother’s standards, which normally I wouldn’t do. Except for he’s definitely the least emotionally stunted between the two of us.

But Sophie is not a plaything to be fought over or put on display. “She’s at the gym. I think,” I add to make it seem like I’m not totally attuned to her.

“Listen, Amy.” This can’t be good. Whenever someone tells me to listen I almost never want to hear what they have to say. “I hope I’m not overstepping. But Sophie mentioned that the restaurant was struggling. I wanted to offer my help or expertise any way I can.”

I swallow down the taste of bile, the absolute, sudden livid rage trying to crawl its way out of my mouth. This is exactly the thing I hate most about myself. The way I am most like my father. We let anger take over, until we don’t just see red. We are red, hot ire.

To have to sit here as this man sticks his unwelcome nose into what is very much not his business. I remind myself that he’s just trying to be helpful. And he is, in fact, a successful restaurateur. He likely has plenty to teach me. He also holds the keys to an opportunity he knows Sophie and I very much need. So no matter how badly I want to laugh in his face and tell him to stick his “advice” between his ass cheeks and invert a fart, I don’t.