The laughter fades, but the peace lingers for a second. Just one. Long enough for me to remember who she is, who I am, and why I need her more than anyone.
Then it hits me.
“Elena, what we talked about before—about Konstantin, the house, the kids—none of that can get out. I mean it. You can’t tell anyone.”
She blinks. “Obviously.”
“No, I mean it. I don’t care if you’re drunk or angry or bribed by a Sephora points scheme. You can’t say a word.”
She gasps in mock horror. “Oh no. What have I done?”
I freeze.
She leans in, eyes wide. “Imayhave told… the barista.”
“Elena.”
She cracks up and smacks my arm. “I’mjoking, Bell. Jesus. I’m not that dumb.”
I exhale so hard I might collapse.
She leans back with a satisfied smirk, sipping what’s left of her latte like it’s victory.
Then her eyes flick past me. Pause. Narrow.
“What?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she sets her cup down, dabs her lip like she’s suddenly a dignified lady of court, and murmurs, “He’s hot.”
“Who?”
“Table by the plant. Beige sweater. Book in hand. Dimples that could cut glass. And he’s definitely looking over here.”
I glance—once, quickly—and yep. Beige Sweater is real. And he’s definitely cute.
“Go powder your nose,” I say, rolling my eyes.
She tosses her hair over one shoulder like it’s rehearsed. “Already did. I’m going to go re-powder my power.”
She stands up, smooth as silk and sin, grabs her purse, and struts toward the restroom like she’s walking a Tokyo runway. One last glance over her shoulder and a wink—because of course she does.
And just like that, I’m alone at the table.
For a second, it’s peaceful. Still.
Then my phone buzzes.
I glance down, expecting Peggy. Or Julian. Or maybe—finally—Konstantin.
But it’s not saved. Just numbers. Ten digits, staring back at me like they know something I don’t.
My gut tugs.
I answer slowly. “Hello…?”
A pause. The faintest static.
