“Oh! Look, look, it’s James Franco,” said Stephy. I didn’t turn to look. I’d already been disappointed by her supposed sightings of Colin Farrell, Penelope Cruz and Christopher Lee. I was especially pissed at myself for turning at the last one, considering he’s dead.

I blew on the steaming coffee in my oversized blue ceramic mug. It wasn’t cool enough to drink yet, but I was done hanging out with Stephy already. She still hadn’t gotten around to why she called, why she insisted on meeting again, after we’d agreed we were over.

“What’s going on, Stephy?”

“He’s getting coffee now. And a muffin. Wow.” I couldn’t catch her eye, she was so absorbed in this poor schmoe she’d decided was famous.

“I’m leaving. Nice to see you.”

“No! Don’t, he’s coming this way, wait a sec.”

“For fuck’s sake, Stephy. That isn’t James Franco. Celebrities don’t just show up at Boise coffee shops on a Sunday morning. Besides, Franco is a pretentious douche. I’m sure he wouldn’t be caught dead in this city, let alone this coffee shop!”

If this were a film, then that would be the moment that James Franco tapped me on the shoulder. He would ask me why I thought he was a douche since I’d never met him. If this were a dream, then that would be the moment that I realized I wasn’t wearing any pants. And if this were any other day of my life, then that would be the moment that I walked out on Stephy for good.

Instead, Stephy saw that I was on the verge of leaving. She pulled a plastic baggie from her purse and put it on the table between us. I stared at the pink plus sign on the white plastic tester. Any other damn day…

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