Page 16 of Falling Off Script
She pauses just long enough for my radar to ping.
“Random schedule. File chaos. Regular identity pivots,” she says brightly. “At one point they tried to make a bonus episode out of crying in a Whole Foods parking lot. I gently intervened.”
Okay. So she knows what she signs up for.
Still sus.
But no crypto. No crystals. No one crying about time being a social construct.
Given I need a new assistant by yesterday... I’ll probably hire her.
I’ve made worse decisions. On camera.
7. Emily
The thing about agreeing to a first date with a man named Trevor was that it was already a gamble.
He had green eyes and decent punctuation. I figured, sure. One cocktail. Worst case, he’s boring. Best case, I finally go on a date that doesn’t end in another tragic postmortem voice memo to Jessie.
We meet at a bar called Bar. I wish I were kidding. It's one of those hyper-minimalist, influencer-lite places that serves drinks in beakers and plays music that sounds like a panic attack manifesto. Everything is matte black.
Trevor is... fine. Teeth a little too white. Hands a little too moisturized. And just a bit too proud of his Patagonia vest.
He orders us both something mezcal-based without asking. “Trust me,” he says, like a man who skimmed one bartending subreddit and never shut up about it.
I nod, mostly because correcting men has never once improved my drink.
“So, what do you do?” he asks.
“I’m a mindset coach,” I say. “For women.”
“Oh,” he says, pausing just long enough to prove he didn’t hear the ‘mindset’ part. “So, like, you teach them how to flirt better?”
I open my mouth, then close it. He leans back, satisfied, like he’s cracked the feminist code. My cocktail arrives in a test tube.
But then his eyes light up like a raccoon spotting a Ring cam.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, craning his neck. “Is that... Adrian Zayne?”
I freeze mid-sip of my artisanal $19 ginger-turmeric-mezcal-spritz.
“Excuse me?”
Trevor cranes his neck. “It is him! The dude from the masculinity bootcamp thing. He changed my friend’s life.”
“Oh no,” I mutter.
Trevor’s already waving. “ADRIAN!”
And because God has a perverse sense of humor, Adrian turns.
Of course he does. He’s in a black T-shirt that fits a little too well. And next to him, laughing at something he just said, is Jessie.
My Jessie.
Traitorous, job-hunting, sold-out-to-the-dark-side Jessie.
I blink once. Twice. Then look at my drink like maybe it contains hallucinogens.
