Roz is surprisingly chatty the whole Lyft ride. Not with me, of course.

She spends the entire time ignoring the traffic inching past our window and focuses on chatting up our middle-aged driver. Somehow, Roz doesn't talk about herself, instead asking him all about his life.

His polite façade goes from courteous to exuberant as he opens up about how he immigrated from Jordan and retired from his engineering job and how his wife used to be a dentist and now his daughter is a graphic designer in Minnesota and he loves, loves, loves his new job (except for drunk people).

Roz doesn't mention her job once, smoothly evading each of his questions and redirecting the conversation back to him.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye, almost in disbelief, because I just don't understand how she can do this. Talk like that. Talk about someone else, when her own story is so incredible.

I try to look interested in my phone, but I'm too jittery. To try and counteract the overexcited energy buzzing from my spine all the way through to my fingertips, I begin bouncing my leg up and down, my expression neutral.

I think Roz glances over once or twice, but she doesn't say anything, thankfully. Just keeps on chatting with Emad the Lyft Driver.

She still hasn't said a word to me when Emad stops.

They have an incredibly heart-felt little good-bye—Emad is very nice, thanking her for talking to him, which is ... fuck, it's stupidly sweet. Why does this make Roz even hotter?

He smiles and waves bye to us, and as Roz and I walk down the sidewalk, I see her rate him five stars, then type in a custom tip amount of ten dollars. Ten whole dollars. That's literally a third of my net worth right now. I can't imagine the inner workings of her brain, the little voice that tells her that ten dollars is a completely normal tip amount.

Rich people. Damn.

We walk in silence next to each other. I feel ridiculously underdressed. As if Roz wasn't already a New York ten, she's wearing one of those timeless trench coats and a pair of large sunglasses, pushed up back over her curls. Her lips are stained a timeless cherry red, her eye makeup minimal, her cheekbones a warm auburn.

I'm wearing last week's blue sweater overtop a white button-up, a look I'd hoped looked intellectual yet professional when paired with my black high rise pants.

Yeahhhh, I don't think I've done a good job here. But hey, I tell myself. At least I didn't cry on the subway. Little wins.

"Here we go," Roz says. "Should we have lunch while we're here? I will. Or brunch? Shall we be brunch girlies? Maybe. Yes. Brunch. Absolutely."

I look up at the minimalist sans serif font in the giant window before us. And I gulp. Audibly, I think. Café Crotchety. We're walking into the Café Crotchety.

It went viral a few years ago because of its tongue-in-cheek design. The wallpaper is all black and white pictures of people making grumpy faces, each no bigger than your thumb. It's got a bare-bones kind of industrial vibe, all concrete and exposed brick and long bench-style tables. And the coffee is good, apparently. As well as fucking expensive as shit. I definitely don't have the money to eat here.

Roz holds the door for me, and I walk in, numb, barely able to mutter a quiet "thank you."

Okay. How expensive can a small dark roast be? I glance up at the screen behind the cash register and give Roz the world's wobbliest smile.

Four-fifty? For a small coffee? In this economy?

That's, like, six percent of my savings. It's less than, like, a millionth of a percent of Roz's.

Would she fire me if I asked for an advance? Probably, right? I can only grovel so much in the span of twenty-four hours. I'll just tell her I'm taking a caffeine break or I'm not thirsty or something.

Oh god. I bet they even charge for water here, it's that overpriced.

Godammit. That lucky Lyft driver. I resent you, Emad. Seriously—ten whole dollars.

"There she is!" Roz says, waving at a woman sitting at one of the few small tables in the whole café. I recognize her immediately, as my stomach twists in on itself. She's my dream agent, after all: Catalina Matamba. The woman, the myth, the legend. Roz's agent since the start, the then-intern who championed All Hail Mary as her first client.

Fun fact: literary agents make fifteen percent of their client's contracts. And if Roz has over half a billion in wealth, then ... yeah.

Goddamn rich people, choosing the stupidest, most expensive coffee shop out there. Assholes.

As we near Catalina's table, I see that I am doomed to continue feeling woefully underdressed. She stands when she sees us. She's in a creamy silk blouse and these light olive pants that are probably worth just as much as my half of the rent.

Why do I work for a rich person again? I got this sweater from Target. In high school. On sale.

I think "quitting is always an option" is going to become my mantra.

Catalina steps forward as we near her, brushing her glossy coils away from her face. "Roz," she coos, "I've missed you."

Roz hugs her tight and laughs. It's like music to my ears. "I'm sorry! You know how I am when finishing a first draft."

"I know. But I still miss you when you're going through a hermit phase."

They sit down across from each other, and I stand there awkwardly a moment until I realize I should probably join them. I scooch in next to Roz, wincing at how my chair screeches against the shiny concrete floor.

Roz sets her little black handbag on the table next to her sunglasses. I twiddle my thumbs and wonder if they take Apple Pay here—not that I could afford it regardless.

"I read that draft by the way," Catalina says. Her lipstick is a bright fuchsia, and it really brings out the warmth in her dark skin. "And then reread it and reread it and reread it. I'll get you my notes tonight, but I fucking loved it."

"Oh, don't be nice," Roz says. Her smile is surprisingly timid. We're close enough that our knees are nearly touching, and I can smell her cocoa perfume once again. It's a little comforting, a lot anxiety-inducing. God, Gina used to smell so fucking good. I miss her perfume already. "It needs a lot of work."

Catalina takes a dainty sip from the blue china teacup in front of her. I glance back at the screen, then back to the teacup in horror. Who in their right mind pays five dollars for a small cup of tea? What the fuck, rich people? What. The. Fuck.

"It's not your cleanest draft, I will admit," she says, setting the cup back on its matching saucer with a little clink. "But you're the cleanest drafter I've ever represented. Ever seen, in fact. So a 'messy' draft for you"—she uses overexaggerated air quotes here for "messy"—"is still cleaner than fucking Vonnegut."

I watch as Roz blushes. "Oh, shut up, you," she says, but it's quiet, and I'm pretty sure she's avoiding Catalina's gaze.

Catalina seems used to this uncharacteristic bashfulness. She shrugs it off and picks up her tea again. Her long nails perfectly match her lips—bright, poppy pink. "All I'm saying is, it's good. You're Rosalind Motherfucking Lindbergh. You give people imposter syndrome, not the other way around."

Roz clears her throat, moving a thick strand of curls from off her shoulder. "Um, this is my new personal assistant I told you about. Do you want to introduce yourself?"

My stomach drops to the floor. This was so not the game plan.

I wasn't supposed to talk to Catalina Matambo until I had a draft as clean and as perfect as one of Roz's. I was supposed to pop up in her inbox when she reopened submissions—if ever—and blow her away with my insane talent, like Rosalind did all those years ago. I wanted to send in a draft that blew her mind, that made her tell me I was "better than fucking Vonnegut."

Now I'm stuck giving her an embarrassingly meek wave. It looks more like I'm asking for a high five than anything. My shoulders are stiff, my smile plastic. A perfect first impression. "Hi," I tell her through clenched teeth, "I'm Marcella Harper."

"The one who tore the dress! Yes, yes." Catalina reaches over the reclaimed wooden table and shakes my sweaty-ass hand. I'm staring at Roz, who suddenly looks a lot less shy and a lot more like she's barely containing her laughter. "Catalina. Catalina Matambo."

"Oh god, you already heard about the dress?" Roz asks, then gives this breathy chuckle that I don't think is meant to be sultry but totally is.

"She's already got quite the reputation at Ferguson, Christopher, & Ross," Catalina says. "Marcella, honey, you're already invited to the New Year's party. So long as you promise to embarrass Roz again."

Oh my god, I want to perish.

I'm trying to chuckle nervously (and failing, probably) when Roz puts a comforting hand on my shoulder and says, "Don't worry, I wasn't actually embarrassed. Although if you rip my dress at my literary agency's New Year's party, that may change."

She takes her hand off and sets it back in her lap. I'm left staring at Catalina's tea cup, missing the warmth of Roz's gentle touch through my sweater. Somehow, my eyes well up a little bit—when is the next time someone is going to touch me? Even just casually?

Damn you, Gina.

"Anyways, moving on," Catalina says, "I think we have everything that we wanted from Sony."

Roz sits up a little straighter, her eyebrows perking up. "Wait, really? Already?"

"I brought the contract with me," Catalina says, smiling even wider as she lifts up a black purse. Like everything else here, it looks ridiculously expensive. What is my life. Why am I here.

"Oh waiiiit," Roz says, leaning forward, her hand hovering towards it, "is that your new Hermès bag?"

Oh my god. See? And I can't even buy a fucking coffee.

"Mmhmmmm. And this is your updated contract." She tosses a thick stack of paper, kept together with a binder clip, onto the table in front of us.

I'm torn between peeking at it and staring off at the ceiling, so I end up focusing on something in-between—the back of the chair opposite me, to Catalina's left.

But then Roz nudges me with her elbow and nods at the thick stack. "Look at this. For All Hail Mary."

I whip around, half of my hair flying in front of my face. I brush a few strands out of my mouth. "I'm sorry, what?"

I've wanted an All Hail movie since the book came out. I think just about everyone has, because even though there's anxiety with any book-to-movie adaptation, Roz has created this amazing, action-packed piece of feminist fiction. It's like if Kill Bill had a baby with some Dirty Harry movie, then went on to have a baby with Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion. It's. Fucking. Amazing.

"Yep," Roz says, and fuck, she's gorgeous when she smiles like this. She's absolutely beaming. I don't know if I've ever seen another person look quite so happy. Like, so happy that I'm kind of jealous.

"Congrats," I tell her, and I mean it. My heart is thudding in my chest. I can't believe I'm getting to congratulate Rosalind Lindbergh on a movie adaptation of one of my all-time favorite books, her book, but here I am. "You deserve it."

"Yes, she does," Catalina says. Her expression is mostly coy, but she's giving me this specific look, which I can't quite place. Intrigue? Suspicion?

Maybe it's Resting Rich Face. I think I'll call it Resting Rich Face.

Roz pulls the stack towards her, then glances at me. "Could you get me a pesto basil sandwich?" she asks, digging into her pocket and drawing out a dark blue Coach wallet. "And I'll take an iced white mocha too, please."

She draws out an impressively thick, pitch-black card and holds it out to me, held delicately between two fingers. I take it, hesitantly, and she says, "Get yourself some lunch too. I'm figuring meals will usually be on me, unless you're a sack lunch girlie."

Before I can even say "thank you," she's turned to Catalina and asks, "Do you want anything, Cat?"

Catalina shakes her head, currently in the process of slipping a headband back over her curls. "I'm all good, baby girl. Now, did you bring a pen, or are you stealing one of mine?"

"Sorry. I appear to have done you dirty once again."

I leave them to their contract, going and waiting in the short line to order.

They're both so nice. Seriously, Roz's offer to pay has taken a literal weight off my chest. My mind is pretty much off Gina now. At least I don't feel quite as shitty anymore.

The man in line in front of me—trim suit, douchey haircut, probably a little bit older than Roz and Catalina—glances over his shoulder and gives me a condescending once-over.

His stare burns, and I find myself unable to meet his gaze, instead craning my neck awkwardly to stare out the window. I am mentally whistling. Like a cartoon.

But then he asks quietly, so quietly, "Are you here with Rosalind Lindbergh?"

I glance back at him. He's turned toward me now, so I can see his grim charcoal grey tie. He might have been better-looking a few years ago. It's not that he's bad now, but his hair is in that awkward stage of half-blond, half-greying, and what I'm sure was once a sharp jawline has begun softening and sagging just a little. I wouldn't normally think anything of it. He just looks like such an insufferable douchebag. Immediate bad vibes.

"Yes," I say, too hesitant, too timid, "I'm her personal assistant."

I feel small beneath his gaze. I could almost wither away here, with how useless and disgusting his eyes seem to say I am. I'm waiting for him to say something awful—that's the face he's giving me. Like he's gearing up to tell me all about myself.

But he doesn't insult me. Doesn't say anything that would make me cry myself to sleep later. Nothing rude or vitriolic or remotely punchable.

His gaze is still cold, removed, but he looks almost somber when he says, "Be ... careful with that one."