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He waited longer.

I swallowed with pointed dignity.

“Excellent work,” he said.

“You’re condescending.”

“I’m proud.”

“It can be both.”

He gave me the second piece.

I ate it slowly because his eyes stayed on me and because the excitement inside me had no appropriate professional outlet.

I had never had a playdate.

Not in the way the word meant now. I had spent childhood afternoons supervising homework, organizing shoes, checking whether my brothers had eaten, and making lists for school projects nobody else started on time. I had friends. I had colleagues. I had women I met for drinks after events, women whose birthdays I stored in my calendar and whose preferred coffee orders I remembered.

Every friendship had contained a role.

I planned. I booked. I chose the restaurant. I carried tissues, chargers, painkillers, cash, and the name of the closest urgent-care clinic. I was useful first and present second.

Josie was bringing pens.

That was the plan.

Pens and paper and a stuffed calf. Nothing needed booking. Nobody needed me to call ahead. The floor was clean, the snacks were prepared, and if we changed our minds, the morning would not fail.

I bounced one heel under the table.

Cash set his hand on my knee.

“Last egg.”

“I’m full.”

“You’re excited.”

“I ate toast.”

“You drove across Wyoming on half a bagel.”

“That was an isolated incident.”

“It was the last incident.”

The voice had gone quiet.

Cash serious still landed like weather. Not loud. Never cruel. Just immovable underneath all that sun.

He picked up my fork, cut the last piece of egg, and held it in front of me.

I looked from the fork to him.

“You aren’t feeding me because I can’t,” I said.

His eyes softened. “No.”