I shifted in my chair. "Right. The podcast thing."
"The podcast thing where I convinced a federal judge to admit he'd been shoplifting gum for twenty years, and a bestselling romance author to confess she'd never actually been in love." Her smile was as sharp as the wind off Lake Superior. "So, maybe try again. And this time, try not to be an idiot."
I sighed, reaching up to smooth my hair again. "Okay, fine. I fucked up. I broke his stuff, we yelled at each other, and I ran away like I'm twelve years old. There. Happy?"
"Getting warmer. But you're still performing." She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You know what's interesting? I've watched every episode ofLove on Ice. Twice."
"Fuck. Why would you do that to yourself?"
"Research. And because I wanted to see you when you weren't trying to be charming." Her expression softened. "There were maybe three moments in the entire season where you forgot the cameras were there. And in those moments? You were a guy I wanted to have coffee with."
The comment rattled me. "And the rest of the time?"
"The rest of the time, you were someone auditioning for the role of Jake Riley." She traced the rim of her mug with one finger. "So I'm curious. Which version walked out of your kitchen this morning?"
Words spilled out of my mouth without thinking. "You know what's fucked up? I keep thinking about how he organizes the spice rack. Alphabetical order, obviously, because why would you do it any other way if you're Evan Carter? He puts the cinnamon between the cardamom and the cumin, and there's something about that—how he makes space for everything to have its place—that makes me want to..."
I stopped and stared at my hands.
"Want to what?"
"Miss someone who alphabetizes cinnamon. Is that weird? Because it feels weird."
Juno smiled gently. "Not weird. Specific. There's a difference."
She closed her laptop with a soft click and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You know what I think? You've been performing so long that you forgot people might want to see theguy behind the curtain even when he's messy. Especially when he's messy."
Something began to crack in my funny guy facade. "What if the man behind the curtain is just... more mess?"
"Then maybe that's precisely what someone needs to see."
We were both quiet for a moment. The café hummed around us—espresso machine hissing, someone laughing at a table near the window, and the soft tapping of fingers on laptop keys. Normal noises. It was the soundtrack of other people's lives.
Juno reached out and tapped the back of my hand. "Want some unsolicited advice from your friendly neighborhood podcast host?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really. Here it is: maybe you don't need to be so loud all the time to be heard."
"Wisdom or bullshit? How do I know which it is?"
"Could be both. I contain multitudes." She grinned and pulled out her phone, and began to type. "Okay, let me take your emotional inventory. You're giving me some seriously advanced soul spillage vibes."
"Soul spillage?"
"Technical term. Very scientific." She stopped typing. "Patient presents with wet sneakers, defensive humor, and an alarming tendency to wax poetic about spice organization. Diagnosis: acute feelings disorder with complications."
Despite everything, I laughed. "What's the prognosis, doc?"
"Depends. Are you willing to try saying sorry in your own language instead of everyone else's?"
I touched a stray paper napkin near Juno's mug and tilted my head. She nodded, and I slid it in front of me. "What if I don't remember how to speak my language anymore?"
Juno tapped the back of my hand again with a silver-ringed finger. "Then you learn again. One word at a time."
Juno stood and stretched, joints popping audibly. "I need more caffeine before my brain starts staging a rebellion. Want anything?"
"I'm good."
