Page 290 of Ruthless Court

It isn’t.

Apparently, she took the starter when they broke up.

He misses it more than her.

Beside me, Hannah presses her lips together.

I lean closer.

“Is this normal?”

Her shoulders shake.

“Shh.”

“He just said she stole his fermented child.”

That does it.

A laugh bursts out of her.

She clamps one hand over her mouth while the guy onstage continues describing something called feeding day with the emotional gravity of a funeral.

People around us laugh too.

Not at him.

With him.

The whole place feels different from anywhere I usually spend a Friday night.

Bellwether Books is narrow enough that the audience spills between shelves. Folding chairs face a tiny platform tucked beside the coffee counter. String lights crisscross the old tin ceiling. Somebody has shoved handwritten STAFF PICKS cards beneath half the books in the room.

Nobody matches.

A girl in combat boots and a yellow sundress sits beside a guy wearing a tweed jacket with ripped jeans. Two graduate students share a muffin behind us. A woman with blue hair sketches performers in a notebook. An older man sits near the front with a tiny dog asleep inside his coat.

No one is dressed to be photographed.

No one has spent the evening scanning the door to see who matters.

And nobody seems particularly interested in me.

One guy recognized me when we came in.

He lifted his coffee.

“Nice game Tuesday.”

“Thanks.”

Then he went back to discussing a Russian novel with the woman beside him.

That was it.

No phone.

No picture.