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I step between them. “Guys, please.”

“I’m just asking your mechanic a question,” says Connie.

“You’re threatening him with karate.”

“It was taekwondo. Is your memory really that bad?”

“You just said black belt.”

“Both have black belts!”

Diego snorts and looks away.

Her eyes snap to him. “Got something to say?”

“Do I seem like someone who would mistreat your brother?”

“Do you really want me to answer that, Mr. Fish Tank?”

His face tightens. “Nice to know you meant what you said, Ms. Tell Me Your Secrets, I’m Like A Fire Pit—”

“That was before I knew you’re fuckin’ my brother.”

“Stop!” I come between them, a finger in either of their faces. Neither of them seem to appreciate said finger. “I’m … not gonna have either of you drawing a weapon on the other!”

Diego makes a face. “The hell kind of a weapon do you think I could possibly—You just saw me come over from my porch.”

“I got needle-nose pliers,” says Connie flatly, lifting the tool.

“NEW PLAN!” I shout, startling them both. I face Connie. “Put away the tools and change.” I face Diego. “We’re getting breakfast. Please join us. It’s on me. Actually on me this time. Crepes. Country Lovin’. The worst of the church crowd should be cleared by now.”

He frowns. “I already ate earlier.”

“Well, you’re eating again. And we’re gonna sit at a table like three civilized people …”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why?” says Connie.

My patience is shot. “Because you just cried about missing the crepes here, and you’re both important to me, and maybe I would just like a moment where no one’s threatening someone else with martial arts or pliers.”

“Wasn’t threatening him,” says Connie.

“Didn’t feel threatened,” Diego grunts back. The look Connie shoots him suggests she picked up on the insult in his voice.

I close my eyes, take a breath, and swipe my keys off a hook by the door.

I’m in the car with Connie in the front and Diego in the back. I have Chase Holt playing on the radio at full blast. Connie’s got the visor down checking her makeup in the tiny mirror while Diego keeps trying to look at me through the rearview. I’m in a land of delusions whistling along to the music like it’s my favorite tune, pretending I’ve got everything under control.

Guess I was wrong about the lunch rush. The place is packed when we arrive. No tables are available, so the three of us end up in the tiny waiting area, squeezed onto a creaky bench by a cactus that looks as prickly as I feel.

Diego on one side of me. Connie on the other.

None of us talking.

A server walks by with a plate of stacked steaming hot crepes, as chipper as they come. Connie watches him stroll along, her eyes surely yearning for those crepes to enter her mouth.

If it was just us here, she’d be launching into a story of every time she’d drop in here after choir practice. (She did a zillion clubs and activities and sports back in school, even our own parents had trouble keeping track.) But the woman sitting next to me is full of ire and fire, and I suddenly don’t know how to talk to her.