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The unique rumble of Cal's engine was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. It was brash and loud and all the ways Cal wasn't. She remembered the first time she'd heard it — the night her boy, supposedly dead for six years, walked into this diner, looked at her, and said "Hey Mama. I'm alive." She still couldn't remember much after that, only gathering him into her arms and holding on. But she remembered how proud he'd been to show her the truck afterward. It was the first thing he'd ever bought for himself.

Now, when she heard that truck, she expected her boy. She was smiling as she prepared to walk outside and greet them both.

What she didn't expect was to look up through the front window and see it pull into the gravel lot without Cal in it.

She was out the front door before she'd made the decision to move, wiping her hands on her apron, her heart seizing in her chest — and then the driver's side door opened and Sage Thompson climbed down from the cab, dark hair loose. Mary Sue rushed to the steps of the diner, ready to interrogate the girl, certain something must have happened to Cal. It was the only explanation.

But then she stopped.

She noticed Sage's face.

The girl looked up, saw her standing on the steps, and grinned.

"That truck is fun."

Mary Sue stood very still.

She'd been running this diner for a long time. She'd watched people fall in love across these tables, watched marriages crack and mend and crack again, watched boys leave and men return and sometimes neither. She knew what love looked like from the outside before the people inside it had any idea what they were carrying.

Cal Meridian had given that girl his truck.

His truck.

The man who wouldn't let Michael Barrington touch the cup holders without a lecture.

Mary Sue pressed her lips together very hard, said "get in here, baby girl, before you freeze," and turned around so Sage wouldn't see her face.

The kitchen was warm and smelled like butter and brown sugar. The regular staff had taken their break before the dinner rush, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet of the afternoon.

"Okay," Mary Sue said, tying a spare apron around Sage's waist — which mostly involved wrapping the strings twice because the girl was a full foot shorter than the apron was designed for. "Hands washed?"

"Yes, Mama." The word came easier now than it had on the phone that morning — still a little careful, still a little like she was holding something fragile — but it came.

Mary Sue's chest ached with how much she loved hearing it. Surprised, even now, by how much she already loved Sage Thompson.

"Butter first," she said. "Room temperature. If you try to use it cold I will know and I will judge you."

Sage laughed — bright and genuine, her nose and lip rings catching the afternoon light. It was the kind of laugh Mary Sue was quietly collecting, one that grew more pure and easy every day.

"How will you know?"

"Because I'm a mama, and mamas always know." She set the butter on the counter. "And one day when you're a mama, you'll know too."

She said it matter-of-fact, because it was.

"Start creaming."

They worked in easy rhythm — Sage asking questions, Mary Sue answering them, the kitchen filling with the smell of butter and vanilla and that particular warmth of two people who had decided they belonged to each other. Sage was a quick study, her hands careful and attentive, and she had the good sense to listen when listening was called for.

As they worked, Sage opened up about the last few weeks with Cal. Her voice was clear and vibrant, and Mary Sue watched and listened, her heart swelling quietly at what lived underneath every word.

Sage was describing the ice skating — Cal falling, the birds exploding out of the tree line, laughing so hard she kept losing the thread of the story — and Mary Sue was watching her mix the chocolate chips into the dough and thinking, there she is. This is the girl my boy is going to marry.

She'd seen it in the way Sage's eyes went soft when she mentioned Cal's name without meaning to. In the way she'd touched the truck keys in her pocket twice since she arrived. The way she would stop mid-story and blush and push a flour-dusted strand of hair back with messy fingers and smile to herself, soft and private, like she didn't know she was doing it.

Mary Sue set down her spoon.

"…and then — oh my God, Mama, you're not going to believe this — he started walking home but I swear he was about to laugh and⁠—"