Page 49 of Falling Off Script

I show up. She pretends not to analyze me. We both lie beautifully.

She’s already at the café when I arrive—corner table, window light, a single espresso like it’s a personality trait. She’s scrolling through something on her phone with the kind of expression that says she’s already had five thoughts sharper than anything I’ve come up with all week.

She looks good. She always does. Elegant in a way that feels curated but effortless—like she has a capsule wardrobe of forty-seven identical blazers and the bone structure to make it work. Fit, polished, annoyingly composed. Most people guess her mid-forties. She’s fifty-three.

She hasn’t dated since my dad died. Fifteen years. No boyfriends, no swipes, no flirtation at dinner parties. I used to think it was grief. Then I thought it was standards. Sometimes I wonder if she’s still loyal to him. To his memory. My dad was the kind of man who made loyalty seem like a moral endpoint—tall, principled, career military. He died like he lived: with posture.

We hug—efficient, like she’s clocking my blood pressure through osmosis—and sit.

She raises an eyebrow the moment I reach for sugar. “Rough morning?”

“It’s nothing,” I say, even though it is.

She hums.

It’s not a real hum. It’s a diagnostic.

We’ve been talking for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes—nothing dramatic. Just surface-level updates. Work. Travel. A recipe she half-finished. She stirs her espresso like she’s teasing out some secret. Long, slow swirls. Not looking at me.

I stare at mine. It’s lukewarm by now.

Then, without warning, she says: “You run those coaching groups for men. Any of them... my age?”

I blink. Look up.

“Why, do you want to join?”

I shoot for sarcastic, but it comes out a little too sharp.

She doesn’t laugh. Just lifts one eyebrow. “Not exactly. But I thought I might start dating again.”

I blink.

“Oh.”

Then, trying to recover: “I mean—most of the guys are under forty. Some are older. But it’s not really built for...” I trail off.

“Women?” she offers, deadpan.

“Yeah. Or moms.”

She smiles into her espresso. “Good thing I wasn’t asking for access. Just information.”

I blink harder. “Wait. You haven’t dated since Dad.”

She shrugs. One elegant shoulder, like she’s adjusting a silk scarf instead of dropping an emotional nuke on my Sunday.

“He died. He was not canonized.”

That short-circuits me. “You always made it sound like no one could measure up.”

“No,” she says evenly. “I just didn’t feel like managing someone else’s emotional architecture while grieving.”

Then she adds, offhandedly: “Loyalty made a better story.”

I stare at her.

She doesn’t backpedal. Doesn’t soften. Just takes a sip of her espresso and raises an eyebrow like I’m the one who suddenly got sentimental.

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