So, like, saying that I feel like I'm going to shit my pants is probably an understatement.

I stare blankly at Mr. Grim-Tie-Sad-Jowls, frozen in time.

He glares at me a moment still, then turns right back around, as if he never said a fucking thing. But my mind is reeling. My heart is thumping away in my chest, and ugh, I feel like I'm going to puke? Is that normal? Also, crying. I could totally go for a nice cry right about now.

The barista smiles reassuringly as she hands me Roz's card, and I try to smile back. My brain is on fucking fire though.

My gaze follows Mr. Grim-Tie-Sad-Jowls out the door and down the sidewalk, his gait as slow as it is lifeless, as if he didn't just drop an audacious dick-bomb on me.

I'm awkward and stiff and gawky the whole way back to the table, and when I sit back down, I stumble. When I look up, Catalina and Roz both glance away quickly, but I know: they most definitely saw that.

I am going to perish. Fucking. Perish.

One of the baristas—a peppy, pretty girl with twinkling eyes and cute jeans and the ability to at least pass as normal—brings our items over one by one, and I drink my matcha latte in sullen silence, my shoulders hunched forward. I should have said yes when she asked if I wanted a sweetener with my matcha. Hindsight is twenty-fucking-twenty.

Just, "glum." Glum is probably how I look right now, which is at least better than a snotty, soaked mess.

Honestly, I'm not entirely sure why I'm even here. Catalina and Roz continue to go over contract stuff and book stuff and gossip stuff (Jay Kristoff is apparently back at it again), and I so badly want to listen, but I just, I can't. Brain. Fire. Sweaty eyes. My eyes are sweaty. Not casually brimming with tears, no ma'am. Sweaty, sweaty eyes.

Okay but, what a fucking asshole was that guy? Like, the audacity to just say that to someone? I'm sorry, but who asked? No one. That's right.

I was having an okay time before. I was mc'chillin' with my very-good-very-great friends Rosalind Lindbergh and Catalina Matamba. I was gonna ignore this morning with Gina by learning everything there is to fucking know about Roz's upcoming writing business stuff and about her newest book and about her, and it was going to rock, but no. Now, I'm too busy feeling like I've been socked in the face.

Not a great feeling, honestly.

Roz keeps glancing over at me, and I hate everything, because I know I'm not subtle with my facial expressions. I probably look like I've just eaten a deep-fried dog turd and can't decide exactly how shittily I feel about it. She has yet to actually say anything, though, which is good.

Was that guy right? Do I need to be careful with her?

She is rich. And wildly successful. And wildly beautiful. Seemingly, very, very wildly awesome. But to be that wildly rich and wildly successful, she and Catalina might be a lot more cutthroat than they let on.

Maybe this is one of those "never meet your heroes" instances. Ugh. But, like, I'm working for my hero. Flarp.

What if Gina was right? This job? You only took it because it's with your fucking idol.

I don't think I did. It was just a good opportunity. The best fit for me, and the best option I had with my fucking creative writing degree. Right?

Now I'm second-guessing everything. Roz, Catalina, Gina, me. Myself. I. What if Gina is right? What if I'm just a useless, selfish fuck-up? What if—

"Um, Marcie? Marcie." I don't register Roz's voice at first, not until she's leaning in close to me, and she gently lays her hand atop my own.

I glance over at her, startled. Our faces are immeasurably close. I blink at her and feel a heavy tear fall from my lashes. My free hand flies to my cheek. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I'm crying.

"Okay. We'll continue this over the phone, Cat," Roz says, shoving the last bite of sandwich in her mouth. She's still chewing when she adds, "I love you to pieces."

Catalina smiles and nods, already packing her phone and wallet up in her Hermès bag. "I'll get digitized copies of everything sent your way within the hour, okay?"

She stands, and the pair of them hug before Catalina leaves, her hips somehow magically doing that whole catwalk sway thing. Rich people. Lucky gorgeous rich people. What is my life? Why do I exist, if not to suffer?

Tentatively, Roz reaches out and brushes a tear off my cheek. I stare at her, wide-eyed, my tears suddenly stopping in their tracks. She seems to catch herself after one tender swipe of her thumb, because she freezes, then pulls her hand away, wiping the wet smudge away on her bare wrist.

Sidenote: Rosalind Lindbergh has the most breathtaking wrists on the whole entire planet.

"Do you want to go on a little field trip?" she asks, and it almost feels hesitant. (By her standards.) (Again, though, what the fuck do I even pretend to know?)

I'm unable to do anything aside from nod, numbly. Which is how I end up walking at least five city blocks, trying my best to keep up with Roz's brisk, determined pace, without breathing too heavily. Does she work out? I thought her job was sitting in a chair all day. How is her stamina this—

Stamina. Rosalind. Welp. At least I know my brain is still functioning enough to at least conjure up highly inappropriate thoughts at highly inappropriate times.

"Okay, it's right around here," Roz says, and I swear my eyes bulge out of my head as she snatches my wrist. She turns and gives me a quick wink, her nose crinkling up as she smiles. "It's my special cry corner."

Just, fuck, okay, my brain is so very confused, but one thing is apparent: I am so fucking gay, oh my fucking god.

She pulls me in through a small glass door and up four steps, so quick that I can't even spot the name of the supposed "special cry corner." But before I'm even up the steps, it hits me: the scent of books. Books, vanilla, and a slight yet eye-watering tang of alcohol. A used bookstore. She's taken me to a used bookstore.

The walls are wall-to-wall shelves, chock-full of books, crammed in in whichever way they'd fit best. The floors are a dry pine; any glimpses of visible walls, worn brick. The middle of the floor has a few carts of books marked half-off, and there's a counter next to an archway that shows shelves upon shelves.

A woman with a messy half-up topknot sits behind the counter, her nose buried in a tattered paperback. She glances up when she hears us enter and doesn't even blink twice at Rosalind.

"Roz," she says with a slight smile. I'm immediately jealous of her Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail energy. I don't even like Meg Ryan. Or You've Got Mail. But this woman behind the counter looks like she could be a third, bookish-yet-hip Hadid sister. When she walks out from behind the counter—her limbs impossibly willow-like, her smile a practiced kind of soft—and gives Roz a tight hug, it's impossible not to tell. These two have slept together.

It's not like either of them says anything, of course. It's just ... their body language. How the Book Woman's hand lingers a little too long on the small of Roz's back when she pulls away, how Roz grins up at her and shifts a stray lock of hair over the woman's shoulder, how the pair of them stare at each other a little too long.

This. Of course, this is the kind of angelic creature that Rosalind Lindbergh goes for.

Someone tell me, why do I want to cry again?

Roz looks back at me, her gaze flicking up from my shoes to my face, and gives me a small smile. "Feel like a day drink?"

"Uh...." Is this a test? Because, honestly, yes, but I'm not an idiot. I think. Normally. Hopefully.

"Because I hate to drink alone, and I'm going to have a Pisco Sour, because I would very much like to celebrate selling my very first movie."

The Manic Pixie Book Girl's perfectly pink lips part in surprise. "What? You sold it?"

Roz's smile is big and wide and vibrant. She could totally be in toothpaste commercials. "I did, I did."

"Oh my god!" And they hug again, while I just stand there. Gawking.

Then Roz pulls away and glances back at me. "This is my friend Willow Leave. She owns the Book Burrow & Bar."

"Willow Leave." Her parents named her fucking "Willow. Leave." For fuck's sake.

"Willow, this is my personal assistant, Marcie."

"Ohhhh," Willow Leave says. "Mm, that makes sense. Hi! It's so nice to meet you!"

She's nice when she says it, and I think I look nice when I meekly wave back, but ... "that makes sense"? What, could I not be anything else to Roz? Is that it?

Then again, I don't exactly look like a Willow Leave. Further emphasizing my earlier point about the kinds of unearthly creatures that catch the attention of Rosalind Lindbergh.

Roz helps me find a drink of an extensive menu of book-related cocktails. I go for a sweet-but-citrusy Gryffindor, and she gets her Capote-inspired Pisco Sour. I'm not a massive Harry Potter fan (it's more of a "not a JKR fan whatsoever" thing for me), but Gina was. Is? Was?

Okay. See, it's not like she's dead, but still. How wrong would it be to refer to her in the past tense?

And of course, thinking of Gina—how she was a Gryffindor, just like the drink, and how she was convinced I was a Slytherin even though I'm literally a Hufflepuff—has tears welling up once more. Roz notices, and although she doesn't say anything, she still throws an arm around my shoulders and rubs small, soothing circles against my arm.

Definitely too shocked to cry.

It's also not hard to lean into her touch. All that's keeping me sane right now are the weird glances from Willow Leave (good, how do you like dem apples, Willow?) and the fact that this is my boss. Roz isn't my friend. She's not a romantic prospect. She's just Roz.

Willow slides a foamy, lime green drink across the counter, followed by a reddish one with a straw poked through a dehydrated orange slice. Roz grabs them both, passing me the red one, and gives Willow a smile and a nod. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, and her little black bag is tucked up under her arm, and when she turns that smile in my direction, I feel lightheaded.

"Sign some author copies before you leave?" Willow asks. She has eyes for only Roz, which, y'know. Valid.

Roz takes a tantalizingly sexy sip of her cocktail, then nods. "C'mon, Marcie, I'll show you my cry corner."

It takes me a few seconds to process that we're even walking away. I wave quickly to Willow before following Roz through the archway, taking a panicked sip of my cocktail because we are speedwalking and weaving through shelves and this is totally going to spill otherwise. It burns on the way down, makes my nostrils feel hot, but I like it. It's good. Sweet. Citrusy. A good recommendation from Roz, really.

I take another burning sip before following Roz up a narrow, steep staircase, and then we're back to weaving through a maze of shelves, not another person in sight. Granted, it's before noon, so I don't know who would come here to drink on a Tuesday quite yet.

Roz stops suddenly—so suddenly that I nearly run into her—and grabs a book off a shelf marked ROMANCE. I glance at the opposite shelf, spot cute binding, and grab the title without even taking note of it. Then we're off again, all the way to a corner at the front of the shop that's got its own little window and plants and pillows. Roz sits down, stretching her long legs out in front of her, and sets her drink down on a coaster on the windowsill.

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong," she says while I stand there like an idiot in front of her. "I'll be here, reading. But like, feel free to cry and get it out. If you need to talk, I'm here."

I don't know what to say. What can I say?

So, I just plop down next to her with the book I grabbed in my lap, awkwardly adjusting myself on one of the teal floor pillows. "Thanks," I mutter. "Seriously."

I take another burning sip of the cocktail and flip open the hardback to read the synopsis. My heart pangs in my chest. Fuck. A second chance romance. Did not need that today. It feels like a cruel joke from the universe. I feel another tear slide down my cheek and wipe it away as fast as I can.

"Marcie?" Of course, Roz still notices. And I hate that. It's so fucking embarrassing. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Sorry, um, I—" I take a shaky breath, give her a wobbly smile. "I was dumped on my way out the door this morning."

I don't know if it's pity she's looking at me with, or understanding. My insides squirm. I'm such a fucking loser. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. How long were you together?"

"Since freshman year of college. So, like, six years."

"Wow. Are you sure you don't want to take the rest of the day off?"

I don't say anything, just shake my head. It feels like I've been swallowed whole by something inside me. I don't like it. The numbness. The discomfort.

"Well," Roz says slowly. "Drinks are most definitely on me. What happened?"

"Oh, you don't have to—"

"No, no." She puts the book down in her lap and gives me the most intense look I think I've ever received from anyone, ever. "Marcie. If you want to share, I want to hear. Okay?"

Fuck. Okay. Okay.

I take one more shaky breath, and I tell her everything.