The coffee pot is still in my hand when Cody's face fills my phone screen. I've been waiting tables at Rosario's Diner for three years, and I know every sound this place makes — the hiss of the espresso machine, the bell above the door, the particular way the floor creaks near table nine. So I notice when all of it stops. Every conversation, every scrape of fork against plate. Two hundred people in this diner on a Friday night, and not one of them is breathing. On my phone screen, Cody Vance — 200,000 followers, my boyfriend of eight months, a man who once cried at a dog food commercial — looks straight into his camera and says, "Marisol, babe, you're just not the kind of girl I'm trying to be seen with anymore." Trina grabs my arm from behind the counter. She's been my coworker and closest friend since my first shift here, and she mouths *oh my god* with her whole face. She looks like she might cry. I don't cry. Something sharp and bright moves through me instead, and I laugh — one sound, loud enough that the table nearest me flinches — and I flip my phone around so Cody's 200,000 viewers can see my face instead of his. Then I walk straight to table nine. The man at table nine has been ignoring me all night. He's been here since seven, nursing black coffee and whatever is on his phone, and I've refilled his cup twice without him looking up once. Now I lean down so my camera catches him clearly, and I say, "Don't worry about him. This is the man I've actually been thinking about." He looks up. My brain does something I don't have a word for. He's severe in a way that has nothing to do with being unkind — a jaw that looks like it was cut rather than grown, dark hair that costs someone money to look that effortless, and shoulders that fill his suit jacket the way expensive suits are supposed to fit. But it's his eyes that stop me. Gray and completely still, like a window in a building with no one inside. He looks at me the way you look at a chess piece that just moved somewhere unexpected. He says absolutely nothing. He doesn't smile. Doesn't play along. Doesn't tell me to stop. He just watches, and something about that — the stillness of it, the refusal to perform — makes my pulse do something Cody's words never managed. I notice his own phone call is still connected. He stopped talking the second I walked over. He's watching me like he's waiting to see what I do next. I post the clip before I can talk myself out of it and shove my phone into my apron pocket. The man at table nine picks his fork back up and says, without looking at me, "You forgot to refill my coffee."