Page 174 of What We Become

“No, you’re not. But this is useful.” He taps the counter like he’s locking it into a spreadsheet. “Night out. Club. Visual feast. No murder intermission. Cake. Done.”

“And no making it weird.”

He gasps. “You ask the impossible. Weird is the garnish on my personality.”

“Milo.”

He lifts both hands. “Fine. Minimally weird. Tasteful weird. Elegant weird with a bakery box.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re still going shopping, aren’t you?”

“Obviously.” He drains the rest of his coffee and slides off the stool. “A plan this sophisticated requires procurement.” Then he glances down at his shark shirt. “Also, I have to change before someone mistakes me for an aquarium gift shop employee.”

“Too late.”

He points at me. “Cruel. Beautiful. Exploitative of my devotion.” He leans over the counter and steals a quick kiss, tasting like coffee and sugar packets. “I’ll see you at home.”

The second he’s gone, Rosa pokes her head through the pass window and says, “If you’re done accidentally inviting the regulars to your orgies, table six wants ranch.”

“Rosa!” I gasp.

Danny snorts from the grill. Rosa cackles to herself. The world keeps being stupidly, beautifully my version of normal, so I grab the ranch and keep moving.

FORTY

SAGE

My shift swallows me whole after Milo leaves.

Coffee refills. Toast. Checks. One toddler throws a pancake that sticks to the window. A man in a windbreaker asks if the pea and ham soup is vegan. I survive. I smile. I work.

By the tail end of lunch rush, the diner has that wrung-out feeling it gets after the storm passes. Half the booths are empty. The kitchen noise drops from a roar to a clatter. My apron is damp at the waist from dishwater, and my feet are filing formal complaints with upper management because I still haven’t broken my new boots in.

I stack the last of the plates from a four-top onto a gray bus tray—sticky syrup ramekin, coffee cups, a glass with lipstick on the rim, silverware piled like tiny weapons—and straighten.

That’s when I see him.

Across the street. On the opposite sidewalk. Still as a photograph.

Floppy brown hair. Wire-rim glasses. Cardigan. Watching me through the front windows with that awful, patient focus I know too well.

Jamie.

Stephen.

Whatever his name is, my body doesn’t care about semantics. Every muscle in me seizes so hard it’s like getting punched in the spine.

“No—”

I jerk backward too fast, pivoting away from the window, and slam straight into someone coming up behind me. The impact is solid—chest to shoulder—and then gravity takes over with all the subtlety of a car crash.

The bus tray flies out of my grip and crashes down.

Ceramic explodes against the tile.

Coffee splashes.

Glass shatters.