Wright:
Alex is mid‑rant about my tragic life choices when a shadow falls over the table.
I know it’s her before I even look up.
The air shifts. My pulse jumps. My spine tightens like I’ve been plugged directly into an outlet.
Emma.
Standing at the edge of our booth with a notepad, pretending she’s not visibly fighting for oxygen.
I feel my heartbeat in my teeth.
Alex beams at her like he orchestrated this entire event.
“Well helloooo,” he chirps, “favorite person I’ve never met but feel spiritually connected to.”
I kick him under the table so hard he yelps.
Emma’s mouth twitches. She’s trying not to smile.
I’m trying not to implode.
“Can I get you guys anything?” she asks, voice soft and deceptively calm.
Alex answers instantly: “Yes. He’ll take a whiskey sour—extra shot. Mak
