Page 67 of Falling Off Script

“I just...” she trails off. “I’m so tired, Emily. The thought of getting to know someone new feels like filing my taxes after a house fire.”

That lands in my gut like a rock.

“Then don’t date yet,” I say gently. “Rest. Grieve. Heal. We’re not doing exposure therapy for your attachment style.”

Rachel lets out a weak laugh. “God, I wish I could be one of those girls who breaks up and immediately starts making out with bartenders.”

“You can. Just say it’s part of your healing journey and wear lip gloss.”

She smiles, barely. I hold her gaze.

“You made the right call. You didn’t walk away from something good. You walked away from something scripted.”

Rachel nods, but it’s the kind of nod people give when they’re not ready to believe themselves yet.

“I’ll text you the angry playlist,” I offer.

She reaches for her bag. “Make it acoustic. I want to cry and feel superior.”

The moment she leaves, I flop dramatically into my chair, exhale, and grab my phone. It buzzes mid-reach.

Jessie Caldwell calling.

Thank God.

After emotionally exfoliating Rachel for an hour, I’m desperate for a hit of dopamine. Preferably in meme form. Or a shared fantasy where Adrian Zayn gets lightly concussed by a collapsing ring light.

I answer, already smiling.

“Oh good, my favorite double agent. Please tell me you’ve uncovered proof that Adrian’s jawline is AI-generated and his real face is just a morally confused potato—”

“Emily.”

Jessie’s voice drops ten shades into full-on professional NPR. “This is a semi-formal call. I’m reaching out on behalf of Zayne Media.”

My smile stalls.

“...Excuse me?”

“Adrian wants to float a small content collab,” she continues. “Just one episode. Video or audio. Something lightly reactive with both of you in it.”

“What, like a reality show where I don’t throw a mug at him?”

“More like a limited edition face-off. We’re testing a format where your—how do I put this gently—unresolved tension plays well on camera.”

I snort. “So now I’m a walking plot twist.”

“You’ve always been one. He just finally noticed.”

I roll my eyes. “I assume he didn’t want to call me himself?”

“He thought I’d have a better shot.”

“So he sent my best friend to negotiate like I’m a diplomatic incident.”

“I mean... am I wrong?”

I sigh. “Jessie, come on. We barely made it through one panel without turning it into verbal foreplay for a courtroom drama. You want me to what—set up a camera and flirt-fight him for engagement metrics?”

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