Page 87 of Falling Off Script

"It was Tyler. Adrian saw it and—he lost it. Fired him on the spot."

I blink.

"Publicly?"

"Yeah. No PR spin. No ‘mutual agreement.’ Just ‘pack up your shit.’"

I put the fork down.

"Well," I say. "Gold star for doing the bare minimum."

It sounds hollow even to me.

Jessie doesn’t flinch. She just adds, "He looked wrecked, Emily. Like he hadn’t slept since it happened. I didn’t say anything. Just... thought you should know."

I make a noise that sounds vaguely like a scoff. "Next he’ll discover empathy. Imagine the press release."

She doesn’t reply. We let it sit.

I grab the kombucha, twist the cap too hard. "So," I say, gesturing at the bottle. "What flavor is this? Citrus guilt? Mango manipulation?"

"Lavender grief," Jessie says, deadpan.

We both snort. It’s almost a laugh.

Jessie scrolls through the comments on my podcast.

"Listen to this one," she says. "‘I didn’t know other women felt this way. Thank you for making the mess out loud.’"

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Barely. But it counts.

Jessie refreshes the podcast page. A new comment appears. Jessie tilts the laptop toward me.

@TheRealAdrianZayne: “Emily, you’re the man.”

She squints. “Is that... a peace offering?”

I shrug.

She grins. “That’s Adrian’s highest praise. I don’t think he’s even said that to himself.”

Jessie hands me the last tofu roll. I take it.

We don’t say anything else.

We just eat and let it land. And for the first time in a long time, the apartment feels almost like mine again.

41. Adrian

The knife moves like she’s auditioning for a cooking show calledTherapists Who Slice Precisely to Avoid Conflict.

“Still using the Santoku,” I say, dropping my keys into the bowl by the door.

She doesn’t look up. “Still showing up unannounced?”

“I didn’t want to schedule vulnerability.”

My mom snorts—just barely—and turns to rinse the cutting board. “Very brave. Or very stupid.”

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