“You’re Just a Baker,” My Sister Screamed—The Next Time They Heard My Name, It Was on a Tokyo Flagship

trying to figure out what came next.

“Are you okay?” he asked after we’d both wrapped our hands around paper cups like anchors.

“No,” I said. Then, after a beat: “But I will be.”

He nodded like he approved of the answer.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For all of that.”

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t intercept your own emails.”

He smiled slightly. “No. But I should continue reading …