“Complicated.” Liam glanced at Kira, who was already looking in our direction.
“You’re here?” I said to her, far less gracefully than I had hoped.
She tilted her head at me. “Don’t sound too happy to see me, Landon. Aimee and I talked this morning. I have a long lunch break, so I thought I’d get the mural outline started.”
“I am happy to see you,” I sputtered, flushed. “I just didn’t know you were coming.”
Maybe I would have worn something better than this old, ratty T-shirt.
“That was kind of the point,” Mom said with a wink. “I knew if I told you, you’d get all weird about it.”
“I’m not weird about it,” I muttered.
“You’re being weird about it,” Liam said under his breath behind me, not even looking up from his phone.
Mom ignored both of us and turned to Kira, her smile bright. “You don’t want to get that pretty outfit dirty. Landon, honey, grab her one of your old T-shirts from the back, would you?”
“Seriously?” I shot her a look.
“Seriously,” she echoed, already leading Kira toward the mural wall near the back. “She’s going to make this place beautiful.”
I huffed but did as I was told, heading to the back hallway where the storage shelves were stacked with mismatched aprons and a box of shirts that hadn’t seen daylight in years. I dug around until I found a soft, oversized gray tee with the diner’s faded logo still visible across the front.
When I got back, Kira had her sketchpad open, crouched by the wall, her brows furrowed in that way she always did when she was thinking too hard. She looked up when I handed her the shirt.
“Thanks.” She stood and took it, her fingers brushing mine for half a second too long. “Sorry for the surprise. I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”
She slipped the T-shirt over her blouse right there, twisted her hair up into a bun, and secured it with a pencil from behind her ear.
Liam let out a low whistle from the booth. “Damn. Looking good, Kira.”
Kira grinned as I glared.
“Don’t flirt with my…with Kira.”
Mom beamed like she’d orchestrated the whole thing. Knowing her, she probably had. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Kira step back from the mural space, her gaze sharp and focused.
What a dysfunctional family unit we make.
Something stuttered in my chest, realizing that I had just included Kira within the scope of my family. I didn’t want to think too hard on that, so I pushed it back down for a rainy day.
“Want to help with the mural?” Kira asked me.
“Sure,” I said. “Put me to work, Picasso.”
Kira crouched again, sketchpad balanced on one knee, eyes scanning the wall like she was seeing something invisible the rest of us couldn’t. She flipped to a page filled with thumbnail sketches, like tiny bursts of ideas, and tapped her pencil against one. Then, without fanfare, she stood and began drawing.
“You can be my easel,” she joked. But I took it seriously, grabbing all of her pencils and holding them out for her easy access.
The first line was light but sure. Then another, and another, as she mapped out the top arc of what looked like a rising sun. She’d always had this focus when she created—quiet and intense, like the world narrowed down to the stroke of graphite on plaster.
I hovered nearby longer than I probably needed to. She wore my shirt like she’d always had it, like it belonged to her. The hem fell mid-thigh, loose around her waist, and smudges of gray already dotted the front from where she’d brushed her hands.
About halfway through her outline, the bell above the door jingled again. God, was today everyone’s day to visit the diner?
I turned my head, still kneeling beside Kira with a faint smear of yellow chalk on my knuckles. This time, itwasthe lawyer guy.
He stepped inside with easy confidence. Sharp navy suit, a burgundy tie knotted just right, and a messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder. His wavy brown hair and beard were trimmed, dark eyes scanning the room. What surprised me the most was how young he looked. He was the lawyer who saved the diner, but he couldn’t be older than early thirties.
