My boss, Lena, took one look at the baby carrier behind the register and said, “You have exactly thirty seconds before you tell me what on earth happened.”
I told her enough.
I brought Hope.
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She pressed a hand to her chest. “Jodi.”
I swallowed. “I know.”
The bell over the diner door rang around four.
I was pouring coffee for a trucker in booth six, with Hope asleep in the carrier beside the pie case, when I saw him.
***
Andy was young, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, but grief made him look older and unfinished. He stood just inside the door, holding a baseball cap in both hands.
His eyes went to Hope first. Then to me.
Andy was young.
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“Hi, Jodi,” he said.
Every nerve in my body answered before my mouth did.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Andy.”
He looked wrecked. Not dangerous. Just wrecked.
“I loved your daughter,” he said.
The diner went quiet around me in that strange way busy places do when your whole life tips.
“I loved your daughter.”
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Lena took the pot from my hand without a word.
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