Page 23 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
“Ellis!” Katie greeted warmly, like we were old friends, and started toward the table.
I was hit with a jarring thought. Was I supposed to get up? Did we hug? Stay seated? Was it rude if I stayed seated?
An internal scream echoed through my head at the uncertainty, and for a moment, actual spots dotted my vision.
Somehow, my legs snapped to attention, and I stood—awkwardly—just as she reached the table. She grinned wider and pulled me into a quick hug. I tensed for the briefest second, unprepared for the contact and not exactly used to it from anyone outside my family.
She let go just as quickly and slid into the seat across from me.
I sank back into my own chair, trying not to visibly exhale with relief.
“Thank God you actually showed!” she said brightly, leaning on her elbows, her eyes sparkling. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I get ghosted. Like, why say yes to meeting up if you don’t want to?”
“Yeah…” I said, voice wobbly, offering what I hoped passed as a commiserating smile. “That sucks.”
“Well, I had a good feeling aboutyou,” she said with a soft laugh.
The waiter came over before I could respond, and Katie ordered a matcha latte with oat milk like she’d been doing ither whole life. I, having zero aesthetic—and at this point, zero personality—ordered a black coffee.
“So,” she said, eyes eager as she looked at me. “Tell me about yourself. What brought you to Femme?”
You know in movies when time just... stops? The camera zooms in on the protagonist’s face, wide-eyed, panic-stricken, as everything slows down?
Yeah. That was me.
In real time.
Blood rushed through my body, roaring in my ears. My palms were sweating so badly I was rubbing them on my jeans beneath the table.
Why hadn’t I prepared for this? Rehearsed some sort of script?
No. Instead, I sat there like an idiot, staring at her expectant face, trying to think of something—anything at this point—to say about myself that didn’t revolve around death, illness, or existential dread.
What had my assignment been again? Don’ttalkabout death, or don’tresearchit?
I couldn’t remember.
My head pounded.
Her smile faltered at my silence, and I latched onto the first thought that crossed my mind, my mouth blurting it out foolishly.
“Well, I nearly died a few times.”
“Oh!” she said quickly, her voice lifting an octave. “Wow, that’s, um... intense.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
Oh God, it was all going to shit already, and I hadn’t even had my coffee yet. It felt like watching a glass tip over in slow motion, knowing I was too far away to stop it.
Katie cleared her throat and adjusted her smile. “So, um... if you don’t mind me asking, how did you almost die? A few times?”
“One oat milk matcha!”
The waiter appeared like divine intervention, setting Katie’s drink down with a flourish before turning to me.
“One black coffee!”
