“And why’s that?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You know … Everyone knows you like to cook at home.”
I raise my eyebrows. They do? I mean, they aren’t wrong. I much prefer to cook my food at home rather than eat out. I’m sure there’s some long-winded explanation about how my mother being unable to afford to eat out as a kid has rubbed off on me as an adult, but honestly, it has more to do with the fact I started eating clean around the time my mother was diagnosed.
It just sort of happened, unintentionally. I started juicing and making green smoothies for the both of us, hoping that her diet would help her fight the cancer and mitigate the side effects of chemo. It caught on from there. My co-workers even make fun of me for making Max homemade dog food.
So, yeah. Not only was it odd I went into the diner, but I ordered fries. I was so out of my element and tongue-tied, I’m pretty sure I would’ve said yes to anything Lily asked at that moment.
Turkey club and fries it was. My stomach revolted the next several days—couldn’t even stomach the grilled cheese or cake at Ethan’s birthday.
I’m not sure what it was. Curiosity maybe. I told myself I wanted to make sure she was okay.
Naturally, Old Man John had to sit there and rave about how she was his favorite waitress of all time. I highly doubt the other customers in the diner would agree, considering her permanent scowling expression most of the time. Except for when John came into the diner. Her face widened into a grin wider thanTexas. She was patient, kind to him in ways most people aren’t these days.
“Noah?”
I blink, realizing I’m smiling. “Sorry. Uh, yeah. I figured it was time I finally check it out.”
She swallows. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that girl you saved, would it?”
“Lily?”
“If that’s her name …”
“What? Morgan …” This is taking a turn, and I’m not sure what I can do to help steer it back to normal.
“I’m sorry,” she says, loading the last of the bags into the truck. She wipes her palms on her skinny jeans, tucked into boots with wool socks. “I just …”
A tear trickles down from the inside corner of her eye.
Hell.
“Morgan …” I reach for her but stop short, curling my fingers into a fist.
“Have a good appointment with your mom.”
Morgan grabs her cart, swiping at her wet lashes, and darts back into the grocery store.
Mentally chiding myself, I get into my truck and leave, replaying all the things I could’ve said to fix this conversation. I stop at a red light, my typically iron stomach churning with ease.
Inside, the truck is silent. The back is free from Max and his heavy panting. The radio, while on, is dialed down to zero. The only sound is the thump of my fingers on the wheel. All the while locals and tourists wandering the sidewalks laugh and strike up midday conversations.
Morgan. My mom. Brent. This gnawing guilt is the reason I prefer to stay at work, in my cabin, lost to Yosemite, with only Max by my side.
The church bells chime, ringing in the noontime lunch rush, and I find my gaze floating over toward the diner. Lily’s sweaty face and sun-kissed nose from Ethan’s party flashes into my mind. Her glances toward the cake must’ve totaled fifty times, and since I don’t eat it …
One of the waitresses is outside, coat bundled over her retro diner uniform as she adds fall-themed window clings to the smudged glass outside. She’s blonde and tall and most definitely not Lily, but I can’t help but wonder, if it was her, would I stop? Would I roll down my window to offer a wave and say hi? Will she ever offer me a smile like she did Old Man John as opposed to the downward curl of her lips pulling into clear disapproval—or maybe more like barely contained revulsion. I’m not?—
A horn blares behind me and I jolt, shoulders tensing as I squint in the rearview mirror, then to the green light ahead of me. Stepping on the gas, I take one more glance toward the diner and move on.
Did I mention I hate hospitals? It doesn’t matter we’ve made our way to the upper floor of offices. I still clamp my jaw shut, biting back the harsh words I’d like to spew at the walls.
The wheels of my mother’s oxygen squeak as she rolls it behind her. Her baggy jeans swish together in a slow steady rhythm as she walks, and though it’s fifty degrees outside she’s still wrapped in a blue wool sweater that consumes her. I attempt, for the sixth time since we got out of my truck, to help her, but she bats me away, too out of breath to offer any words with her admonishment.
She clings to the lacquered wood handrail mounted on the wall that extends the length of the hall, and even though thewalls are bright white in the hospital area, up here on the office floor, they’re a warm cream riddled with generic headshots of all the doctors who operate out of this hospital.
Dr. Riedel’s office is farthest from the elevator, which irritates me. With every step, my mother has to stop for a breath or rest while leaning against the wall and when we finally make it, his door is open and expecting.
