I stop mid-step on the escalator before remembering that I’m not the only person trying to move forward. "You’re… here?"
"Yes."
"In Seattle?" I say to clarify.
"You’re having a crisis," she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Gabriella approved the travel when I told her it was in regard to our new client, Randolph. It’s billable. You’re welcome."
"This isn’t a crisis," I say automatically, even as my voice sounds thinner than I want it to. "I only fell in love with my client, slipped his secret to my boss, and now he won’t answer my calls. Completely normal work week."
I hear honking through her side of the phone, and then I hear her yell,"Learn how to drive, asshole."
"Exactly," Molly says, returning to our conversation. "It’s a completely normal work week… which is exactly what I told Gabriella to get the approval."
I close my eyes briefly as I step off the escalator. "You didn’t have to fly out here."
"I absolutely did. You sound like someone who’s about to spiral alone."
"I’m not spiraling," I protest.
"You’re absolutely about to."
I can’t even argue with that.
"I just need him to talk to me," I say quietly, stepping toward baggage claim even though I don’t have checked luggage. "He won’t even give me five minutes."
"And how’s texting him twenty times working out?" she asks gently.
"It’s probably making it worse. At the very least, I have pretty much zero pride or dignity left in my body."
"Perfect! Rock bottom, that’s right where I need you to be. I’ll be outside in ten," she says. "Don’t disappear."
As if I could.
Molly pulls up in a silver rental SUV like she’s staging an intervention, sunglasses on despite the gray Seattle sky, her expression entirely too composed for someone who lied to our boss to expense a trip to supervise my emotional collapse.
The second I close the passenger door, she looks at me properly.
"You look terrible," she says, not sugarcoating it.
"Thank you," I reply dryly.
"You haven’t slept."
"Nope."
"You haven’t eaten."
"Nope."
She nods once, filing that away as if it were relevant data.
"Okay," she says, easing the car into traffic. "How do you feel about hot dogs and beer?"
"What…? Where are we going to get that?"
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she merges onto the freeway, steady hands on the wheel, expression unreadable.
"Molly… ?" I ask carefully. Not completely sure if I want to know what she has planned.
