Sophie laughs.

Normally, if someone asks “when did you know” it makes me feel like a zoo animal they want to study. But the way she fidgets makes me think she’s nervous, not nosy. “How about you?” I ask awkwardly. “Did you...always know you were...?” I gesture at her, so she can fill in the blanks.

She winces. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot. The reason I asked is because if we apply and we get on the show, your sexuality will probably come up. You have to know that being on TV even if it’s just for one twenty-two-minute episode brings people out of the woodwork. Producers might try to exploit your sexuality as a way to show that they’re so progressive for token queer representation or turn your struggles as a queer woman into trauma porn. You stop being in charge of your own narrative.”

She’s saying important things. I know that I should focus on them, like what exactly happened to her on that show. And yet, I’m stuck on “if we apply.”

“Wait. Back up. What are you saying?”

She rubs the back of her neck. “I appreciate your apology and your commitment to honesty. And I agree the restaurant could benefit from getting on the show. But I need you to be fully aware of what’s going to happen. It’s a lot of work, and it can be seductive, the cameras, the attention, the illusion of fame.”

“Hollywood, seriously?” I rush forward, grab her hands, and pull her up from the chair. “Are you serious? You want to apply?”

She rolls her eyes.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, squeeze her hands. My chest fizzes like a pop can. “Well?”

“Yes. I want to apply.”

Before I take another breath, I wrap my arms around her and squeal and squeeze. “Sophie. Thank you.” She’s forced to join me in my bouncing—it’s the only way we’ll stay standing, I hold her so tight. “Thank you.” I say it over and over again. “I know we might not get on the show but if we do...”

If we do, it means a fully booked reso on any given night. Enough Yelp reviews to bury that woman’s from the other day. My dream gets to keep being a reality.

I pull back just enough to look her in the eyes when I say thank you again. But now I’m aware of the press of breasts, round and full against mine. Her fingers grip my biceps. More of her hair has fallen out of its bun and it frames her face, short hairs sticking up from the heat, longer ones curling around her ears. Her exhales feather over my collarbone, warm and far more intimate than I should let them be.

“Thank you,” I whisper, anything louder might shatter the control I have over my hands. I don’t want to plunge my fingers into her hair without her permission.

Sophie’s tummy shakes against mine, her breaths coming in small, short gusts. She closes her eyes and steps away. “You’re welcome.”