Page 51 of Buttons

“I’d need to find a sitter,” I say automatically, then pause. “Actually, Julian can handle the kids.” I hope.

“Yes! Perfect! Use the ex for childcare. That’s what they’re good for.” She winks, then sobers slightly. “How’s that going, by the way? The whole co-parenting situation?”

I shrug, surprising myself with how easily I can discuss this now, especially since Sarah is aware of Julian’s emotional distance. “Complicated. He’s been sending flowers to the shelter, as you’re aware. Been respecting my request to stay away. He’s also trying with the kids by visiting here and there and calling them often.”

“Progress,” Sarah notes. “Small, but progress.”

Our conversation flows easily after that, shifting between shelter updates, the community art project Sarah’s involved with, and her hilarious recounting of a disastrous date with a man who brought his pet hamster to dinner—“In hisundershirt, Elowen. Didn’t even bring it out until I heard scratching come from his nipple.”

It feels strange and wonderful to laugh like this. I realize I’m gesturing more freely than usual, letting my natural expressions show. My hair curls wildly in the café’s humidity, and I haven’t once reached to smooth it down.

“So then,” Sarah continues, deep into her hamster story, “the server comes over just as Spoon—the hamster’s name wasSpoon—decides he needs a potty break. He actually balled up a piece of napkin like it was making a bed, but then instead laid little tiny—”

The bell above the café door chimes, pulling my attention to the entrance. My smile freezes as recognition hits.

Carmella Ruiz stands in the doorway, unwinding a silk scarf from her neck. Her dark hair falls in waves that scream effortless perfection, though I know firsthand how much effort that perfection requires.

I shrink slightly in my chair, not wanting to lose this safe space as my two worlds collide.

Sarah stops mid-sentence, noticing my sudden tension. “What’s wrong?” she asks, then follows my gaze to the door. Herexpression sharpens with immediate recognition. “Holy shit. Is that her?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Carmella scans the café in a way that tells me she’s looking for someone.

Please don’t be me.

“Sarah,” I whisper as Carmella stretches her neck and seems to be scanning the corners first.

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t post our location on social media, did you?”

“Oopsie,” she says. “Instagram. I tagged you.”

“Shoot.”

“Surely, she didn’t follow us here, though, right? I mean…that’s insane.”

But the rich always are. People like Carmella are used to always getting their way.

When her eyes land on me, she doesn’t show surprise, but there is a fleeting tightening around her mouth. She deliberately changes course, walking directly toward us.

Sarah straightens in her chair. “Want me to spill my coffee on her? It’s still pretty hot.” Her tone is light, but her eyes are deadly serious.

“That won’t be necessary,” I murmur.

Carmella stops directly in front of us, looking out of place in this cozy neighborhood café. Thankfully, there are only two armchairs, so she has no place to sit.

“Elowen, what a surprise.”

I crinkle my nose. There was nothing ‘surprising’ about her stumbling upon me.

Meanwhile, Sarah’s fingers tighten around her mug. I carefully place my own mug on the table. Carmella stands before me in a way that makes me want to take Sarah up on her offer.

But, for the first time, I realize I’m not afraid of her. I’m more annoyed.

“Elowen,” Carmella repeats, her voice honey-coated but eyes sharp as cut glass. Her gaze slides over my rain-spotted sweater and scuffed boots, cataloging every imperfection, no doubt. “I heard about your little charity phase with the animal shelter. How sweet of you to help those strays. Always good PR after a separation, isn’t it?”