Chapter 109: Totally Normal Questions About My Client (Not Weird at Al)
The next morning began with my phone ringing like it had a personal vendetta against my peace. I fumbled across my nightstand, knocked over a book, almost dropped my phone on my face, and finally answered with all the grace of someone who had absolutely not had enough sleep. “Hello?” I croaked. On the other end, Camillia’s bright, suspiciously cheerful voice greeted me. “Good morning! I hope I didn’t wake you.” I glanced at the clock. I had, in fact, been awake. Physically. Emotionally was a different story. “No,” I lied. “I’ve been awake for hours. Thriving. Flourishing.” There was a pause. “You sound like you’re negotiating with reality,” she said gently.
I sat up, dragging a hand through my hair. “What’s going on?” I asked, trying to sound like a functional adult. “I found a place we can meet,” she said. “It’s called Brewvist Coffee. It’s near your office, right?” I blinked, my brain slowly catching up. Of course she picked somewhere near my office. Of course she was efficient. Of course my life was now a series of increasingly suspicious coincidences involving this woman. “Yes,” I said slowly. “I know it.” “Great!” she replied. “Can you meet me there in… thirty minutes?” I looked at my reflection in the mirror. This was a face that needed at least an hour and a motivational speech. “Absolutely,” I said. “Thirty minutes is… plenty.”
Thirty-five minutes later—because reality and I have a complicated relationship—I pushed open the door of Brewvist Coffee, slightly out of breath and fully aware that I had sprinted the last block like I was escaping consequences. The warm smell of coffee wrapped around me instantly, rich and comforting, like a hug I did not deserve after that morning. The place was buzzing softly with conversation, cups clinking, espresso machines hissing like tiny dramatic dragons. It was cozy, stylish, and just crowded enough to make me feel like everyone could somehow sense I was here under false professional pretenses.
Camillia was already there. Of course she was. She sat by the window, sunlight catching in her hair like she had personally arranged the lighting for maximum aesthetic impact. I walked toward her, trying to appear calm and not like someone who had mentally rehearsed this interaction three times on the way here. She looked up and smiled warmly. “Hi!” she said. “Hi,” I replied, sliding into the seat across from her. “You’re early.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been here ten minutes.” I nodded. “Yes. Early.”
Before she could say anything else, I reached into my tote with sudden purpose and pulled out my notebook and pen, placing them on the table like I was about to draft a legally binding agreement. Camillia’s eyes flicked down to them, then back up to me. “That looks serious,” she said. I clicked my pen with quiet determination. “It is,” I replied. “I refuse to mess this up.” She smiled, amused. “That’s reassuring.” I opened the notebook, wrote GRAYSO— CLIENT BIRTHDAY PLAN: DO NOT FAIL in bold letters, underlined it twice for emotional stability, and nodded to myself like this was completely normal behavior.
A waiter appeared like he had been summoned by narrative timing. I ordered coffee—strong enough to fix my personality—and turned back to her. “So,” I said, resting my pen against the page, fully prepared. “Let’s talk about the party.” Camillia nodded eagerly. “Yes! I’ve been thinking about it all night.” Of course she had. I, on the other hand, had been thinking about why I agreed to this in the first place. “Great,” I said. “Thinking is good. We support thinking.”
She leaned forward slightly. “I want it to be meaningful,” she said. “Not just a party. Something he’ll actually like.” I nodded, immediately writing meaningful—not just a party in my notebook like this was sacred instruction. “Right,” I said. “No pressure. Just emotionally impactful, perfectly tailored, and impossible to mess up.” She smiled. “Exactly.” I glanced at what I had just written and added a small no pressure :) which somehow made it worse.
Our coffees arrived, and I immediately wrapped my hands around mine like it was emotional support. “Alright,” I said, taking a sip and feeling slightly more human. I hovered my pen over the page again, ready to capture every detail. “First things first—theme.” Camillia tilted her head. “Theme?” “Yes,” I said. “Every great event needs a theme. Otherwise it’s just people standing around holding drinks and pretending they’re having a profound experience.” She laughed. “Fair point.” I quickly scribbled theme = necessary for emotional illusion before looking back up. “So. What are we working with? Elegant? Casual? Something dramatic?”
She thought for a moment. “Maybe something simple,” she said. “He doesn’t like anything too over-the-top.” I nodded slowly, writing simple. not over-the-top. then pausing to underline it like it personally offended me. “Of course he doesn’t,” I muttered. “God forbid we introduce joy in an obvious way.” She blinked. “What?” “Nothing,” I said quickly, adding a tiny no chaos :( in the margin. “Simple is good. Simple is safe. Simple will not emotionally destroy me.”
Camillia smiled into her coffee. “You’re funny,” she said. I pointed at her with my pen. “This is not humor,” I said. “This is stress manifesting as personality.” She laughed again, and I absentmindedly wrote apparently I’m funny under pressure before realizing what I was doing and drawing a line through it. This notebook was becoming evidence.
“Okay,” I continued, flipping to a cleaner section of the page like I could start fresh emotionally. “Location. We need something that fits his personality.” She nodded. “Somewhere quiet,” she said. “Not too crowded.” I wrote it down immediately, adding a small box next to it like I was going to check it off later. “So no clubs, no loud venues, no surprise confetti cannons,” I said. “This man is single-handedly ruining my vision of chaos.” She grinned. “He’s just… more subtle.” I sighed, writing subtle. again. with unnecessary emphasis.
For a few minutes, we stayed on the safe side of planning—guest lists, vague ideas, the kind of neutral territory where no one’s emotional stability was at risk. I nodded, wrote things down, circled words like “intimate” and “meaningful” like I was building a vision board instead of slowly walking into psychological danger.
I would like to officially state—for the record, for the universe, and for any future courtroom that may review this moment—that the questions I was about to ask were driven purely by professional curiosity. Not feelings. Not interest. Certainly not because of a tall, brooding author with an annoyingly thoughtful face. Absolutely not. I am an editor. I gather information. I analyze details. I ask completely normal, very reasonable questions like what is his favorite color and what kind of woman does he emotionally gravitate toward—you know, standard party planning material. If those questions happened to sound personal, that was simply an unfortunate overlap between logistics and human psychology. A coincidence. A tragic, highly specific coincidence. So when I leaned forward, pen poised, eyes sharp with investigative determination, it was not because I cared. It was because I was committed. Dedicated. Professionally invested. And if my heart decided to beat slightly faster during this entirely objective research process, that was clearly a medical issue and not, under any circumstances, emotional involvement.
Then, very casually, in a tone that absolutely did not betray my intentions, I tapped my pen against the page and said, “Okay… quick question.”
Camillia looked up. “Sure.” I tilted my head like this was purely logistical. “What’s his favorite color?” I asked, already writing favorite color before she even answered, because commitment is important. She didn’t hesitate. “Dark blue,” she said. I froze mid-writing. “Of course it is,” I muttered, scribbling it down anyway. “Why would it be something easy like yellow? No, we get dark blue. Mysterious. Emotionally layered. Probably listens to rain for fun.”
She smiled slightly. “He does like the rain.” I paused. Slowly lifted my head. “I was joking.” Camillia shrugged lightly. “I wasn’t.” I stared at her for a long second, then wrote likes rain??? with aggressive pen pressure. “That feels illegal,” I said under my breath.
“Okay,” I continued, flipping to the next line like I was still in control of this conversation. “Favorite place? Like… somewhere he enjoys going.” I tried to sound neutral. Casual. Entirely uninvested in the answer. Camillia thought for a moment. “He likes quiet places,” she said. “Bookstores. Old cafés. Anywhere he can sit for hours without being disturbed.” My pen slowed. “Right,” I said faintly, writing it down. “Of course he does. A human being with emotional depth and preferences. How inconvenient.”
She glanced at my notebook. “You’re writing everything down very seriously.” I didn’t look up. “If I don’t write it down,” I said, “I will remember it. And if I remember it, I will think about it. And if I think about it—” I stopped. Camillia raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” I shook my head quickly. “Nothing. We’re not exploring that path.”
I took a sip of my coffee like it might reset my brain, then leaned forward again. “Okay, next question,” I said, far too quickly. “What kind of… people does he like?” I immediately pretended to fix something in my notebook like I hadn’t just asked that. Camillia’s expression shifted, just slightly. Curious. Observant. Dangerous. “People?” she repeated. I waved my pen vaguely. “Friends. Social circles. General human preferences. Very broad. Extremely innocent question.”
She didn’t answer right away, which was already suspicious. Then she said, calmly, “He likes calm people.” My pen hovered. “Calm,” I repeated, writing it down slowly like it personally offended me. “Define calm.” She smiled faintly. “Not easily flustered. Not loud. Someone who listens more than they talk.” I stared at my notebook, where the word calm was now sitting like a direct attack. “Wow,” I said softly. “That’s… specific.”
Camillia continued, still calm, still composed, like she wasn’t dismantling my entire personality with every sentence. “He also values honesty,” she added. “And sincerity.” I let out a small laugh. “Oh, great,” I said, writing honest. sincere. “So basically the exact opposite of anyone who pretends they’re not asking personal questions for completely professional reasons.” She didn’t say anything. Which was worse.
I tapped my pen against the notebook, staring at the list I had just created. Calm. Honest. Sincere. I underlined them slowly, then added a tiny note next to it: not chaotic. I paused. Then added: definitely not me. I shut the notebook halfway like it had personally betrayed me.
Camillia watched me carefully. “You’re very invested in this,” she said gently. I looked up immediately. “I am invested in the success of the party,” I corrected. “Which requires understanding the subject. This is research.” She nodded slowly. “Of course.” Her tone said she believed absolutely none of that.
I opened the notebook again—because apparently I enjoy emotional suffering—and cleared my throat. “Alright,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice. “Last question. Completely normal. Completely harmless.” She waited. I smiled tightly. “What does he like in a woman?”
The silence that followed was immediate and loud. Even the coffee shop noise seemed to fade into the background like it didn’t want to be involved in this. Camillia studied me for a moment, then took a slow sip of her coffee. “You already asked that,” she said. I blinked. “No, I didn’t.” She raised an eyebrow. “You asked what kind of people he likes.” I pointed my pen at her. “That was different. That was… general.”
“And this?” she asked. I hesitated for half a second. “This is… specific general.” She almost smiled.
She set her cup down carefully. “Like I said,” she repeated, her voice calm, steady, unbothered. “Calm. Honest. Sincere.” Each word landed like a gentle, well-aimed hit. I nodded slowly, writing them down again even though they were already there, because apparently I needed to suffer twice. “Right,” I murmured. “Consistency. We love that.”
My pen stopped moving. I stared at the page—at the neat, organized list that had somehow turned into a character analysis of everything I was not. “That’s great,” I said finally, my voice light in a way that felt slightly forced. “That’s really helpful.” I added a small smiley face next to the list. It looked deeply sarcastic.
Camillia tilted her head slightly. “Are you okay?” she asked. I looked up immediately, smiling in the way people do when they are absolutely not okay but refuse to admit it in a public setting. “I’m perfect,” I said. “Thriving. Flourishing. Remember?”
She didn’t look convinced.
I closed the notebook gently, pressing my hand over it like I could physically contain everything I had just written—and everything I had just realized. “Alright,” I said, clearing my throat. “Back to the party.” My voice was steady. My posture was composed. My pen was back in position.