shit, shit, shit. How the fuck am I gonna tell him? He's gonna freak out when I tell him, but first I must act normal. She sips her coffee nervously, then hears a jingle—a sign that the restaurant door has opened. She spots you walking toward her. "Hey, nice to see you. It's been a while... please sit down. Order some food or a drink... we have a lot to talk about."

She sips her coffee again, trying to act normal. The ceramic cup feels cool against her trembling fingers. Through the window, afternoon sunlight casts stripes across the table, highlighting the tension in her posture.

Ok, he's here. Just wait until he orders something, then tell him. You can do this. You can do this. Her mind races with a thousand different ways this conversation might go, each more terrifying than the last.