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Which was great for her, considering she was probably making thousands of dollars a week. Me? Sure, the freedom was great, but was it worth it if there wasn’t any security?

She was talking again. “I love being able to be who I am without having to filter myself. No pun intended,” she said. I cracked a smile, because we definitely all used filters. “When I was working for the school paper, sometimes I felt like I was trying to be someone else, and it showed. My followers are there for me, not somebody else. If I want to be too real, I can. I can be clear about how much I hate cilantro and not have to worry about appealing to somebody else’s readership. If somebody really loves cilantro, they can unfollow me.” She cracked a grin of her own. “Or complain in the comments. Their call.”

That made me think about my own dislike of wine and the sponsorship offer I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to reply to. I opened my mouth to chime in . . . and hesitated. Was I really ready for that?

I could be hypothetical. “Do you ever promote products you don’t like?” I asked. She cocked her head. “Like, if a company contacted you and wanted you to promote their . . . premium cilantro, and you really wanted the money but didn’t technically need it, would you do it?”

I expected a long answer full of justifications or reasonings, but it ended up being one word. “No.”

I blinked at her. She blinked back. “Just no? You wouldn’t even think about doing it?”

“Oh, I’ve done it,” Jada said. The corners of her mouth twisted wryly. “When I was first starting out, I shilled these breakfast bars made out of carob and coconut. I don’t like carob. As soon as I posted my first one, I felt like such a phony. And people could see it. Every time someone posted that they’d bought them because of me and didn’t like them, I felt terrible. I don’t feel that way when I’m selling something I actually believe in. It felt wrong, and I felt wrong, and I haven’t done it since.”

It was easy for her to say that now, when she was a big name. Still, it resonated with me. It had felt so good to be real.

But also, the money . . .

She squinted at me like she could see into my head. To keep her from asking more questions, I said hurriedly, “What else do you like about influencing?”

Her eyes widened, but they lingered on me a moment too long, like she knew exactly what I was doing. “Well, aside from what I already said, you can’t beat the flexibility. I can schedule reviews when I want, go wherever I want, take vacations whenever I want.”

“That must be nice,” I said wistfully. I technically got two weeks of vacation a year, but most of those days were taken up with doctor’s appointments and things like that. When I had mustered up a week in Maine with a guy I was dating last year, Mr. Decker had the temp calling me twice a day asking for help. Sure, I could’ve just not picked up. If I wanted to make my boss grumpy.

Grumpy bosses maybe didn’t want their assistants making them grumpy in their office anymore.

The waiter arrived with our entrées. Because we’d “ordered light,” there were also only two of these. A firm whitefish with crispy skin that glistened under the light and shattered between my teeth, nestled atop a smooth, creamy carrot-ginger puree, luscious with just the right amount of butter (a lot). Roasted carrots, yellow and purple and orange but always caramelized on the outside added pops of sweetness and texture, and candied ginger was sprinkled on top, providing some spice and some chew.

I was sad when it came time to move on to the second entrée, but it cheered me right up. A pasta that had clearly been made here, thick strands that were tender but with a chew to them, bathed in a sauce of coconut milk and garlic and ginger and chiles. I could’ve slurped this pasta down all on its own, forever, but the buttery chunks of shrimp and crunchy bits of okra scattered throughout made for most welcome diversions. Okra seeds popped with relish on my tongue.

Jada and I got some quick photos of the scraped-clean plates to pair with appropriate drooling emojis, then a selfie of the two of us laughing together over them. I kind of wanted to make it my phone background but instead went to add it to my page, like a normal non-creep. Just as I was about to hit the key to make it live, my phone began to vibrate.

Mr. Decker.

I bit my tongue and sighed at the same time. “I’m really sorry. I have to take this.” I hopped to my feet, wincing as my knees hit the bottom of the table. My phone buzzed insistently in my hand; I could practically hear Mr. Decker’s impatience on the other side. “I’ll be right back.” Hopefully.

I wanted to take the call outside, where Jada wouldn’t be able to hear and maybe judge me, but threading my way through the crowded restaurant would have taken too long, so I had to answer halfway through. “Good afternoon, Mr. Decker,” I said, cutting myself off before I could automatically complete saying my traditional office greeting of Good afternoon, Mr. Decker’s office. “Is everything okay?”

“You sound like you’re out,” he non-answered. A little suspiciously, like he was a kid who still thought his teacher lived in the school. Maybe he did think I slept under my desk, using an Ellen’s Promise hoodie as my pillow. “I just wanted to tell you what a great job you did.”

I cleared the crowd waiting by the hostess stand and made it outside, which really wasn’t much quieter than the restaurant. I blinked at a group of guys smoking something that smelled a whole lot sweeter than tobacco. “What?”

“With my wife’s party,” Mr. Decker said loudly. His words sounded a little looser than usual—not a lot so, but enough where I, who was used to analyzing his words and his tone and inferring his mood and his needs from them, could hear it. Was he tipsy? “My expectations weren’t very high because of the time limit, but you blew them out of the water. My wife is delighted. I don’t know how to thank you.”

How about with a big bonus? I didn’t say. Instead, I told him, “Thanks.” And then, a little bit reluctantly, “Honestly, Emerson Leigh was a huge help. I don’t know if I could’ve done it all without her.”

His laughter roared in my ear. “Good one.” And before I could protest that it was true, he’d hung up. Without a goodbye.

I sighed as my phone swung back down to my side. I turned to go back in and nearly jumped out of my jeans. “Jada!” For someone wearing so many crinkly layers, she could move awfully silently. “Didn’t hear you there!” Had she heard me? “Should we go back in?”

“I already paid up. Thought I would treat you.”

“That’s so kind of you, but really, you don’t have to!” I blurted. “Do you have Venmo? Let me send you—”

She stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Seriously, I wanted to. You’ll pay it forward one day.” I could do that. Okay. “Besides, it sounds like you deserve it if you’re taking work calls on a Sunday.”

I flushed. “You heard me?”

She slapped me on the back so hard I actually stumbled forward a step. “Yes, I heard you. You sounded like me a couple years ago! I was in marketing until I quit to do this full-time. At a start-up, which meant my boss felt like he could bother me any day, any time.”