“You don’t suck at your job,” she rushes to explain. “You’re fine at your job. I just think,” she considers me for a moment, her nose wrinkling, “I don’t think you like it. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’m not sure your heart is in it. You tell me, do you like working at Blue Wave?”

I don’t have to think long to answer the question. “No. I don’t like it.” But how to fix that? It’s not like I could get somewhere else to hire me in one day. And even if I could, it’s not like I can start a career somewhere else. Not unless I get myself out of this day.

“I don’t like it either,” she says. “I recognized the job dissatisfaction because I feel it every day.”

Surprise pushes me back in the seat. “You don’t like working at Blue Wave?”

She shrugs. “It’s fine. The job is fine. I’m not planning on staying. I just need money to live off while I’m building a following on Insta for my miniature collection.”

My brows lift. “Miniature? Miniature what?”

“It sounds a little bizarre.” She fiddles with her fork and her cheeks turn pink.

Is she nervous?

She bites her lip and then explains in a rush. “Basically, I recreate various buildings, different types of architecture, cottages, windmills, apartments, things like that, but scaled down. And then I post pictures of it. I know it sounds . . . odd, but it’s a whole thing.”

“No, it’s amazing.”

I’m struck silent for a moment, and thankfully the food shows up and I can think for a second while steaming platters of food are set before us.

There’s this whole world happening all around me that I’ve been completely oblivious to. It’s an odd realization, being no more than a side character, in the periphery, completely unaware of other people’s realities.

We eat and I ask Presley questions about the world of miniature art and how she got started with it.

“Don’t laugh, but I was fascinated with doll houses as a kid and it sort of turned into an obsession.” But then she laughs, blushing further.

“I won’t laugh. It’s actually—it’s really cool.” I hold up a hand. “That sounds lame, but I mean it sincerely.”

She grins at me, scooping some tabouleh onto her plate. “So what about you? What are you going to do now?”

“Actually, I have a hobby too. I’m not sure I could ever turn it into a career but—” And suddenly, I’m not nervous to tell her exactly what I want to do. Presley’s willingness to be vulnerable and admit her passions has given me a strength I wasn’t aware I needed.

“What is it?”