“So,” she says carefully, watching me over the rim of her mug. “How’s things with the global DJ sensation?”
I try to play it cool.
“Good. He’s busy. L.A. is nuts. He’s got these press junkets. Big launch. You know. International fame.”
“And?”
“And, well, he calls me,” I admit quietly.
Her eyes soften.
“Every night?”
“Every night.”
She studies me for a second.
“That’s not nothing, Larry.”
I nod.
“I know.”
But my stomach feels tight.
Like a thread pulled too hard.
“I just—” I hesitate. “I feel like I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For it to fall apart.”
Adrianna frowns.
“Why?”
“Because things like this don’t just work,” I say. “Not for me. Not like this. It’s too?—”
I stop.
Because suddenly—I can’t breathe right.
It’s subtle.
Not pain.
Not panic.
Just—wrong.
Like the air shifted.
Like something just tilted off axis.
“You okay?” Adrianna asks immediately.
I blink.