“Mm-hmm.” Millie’s gaze ping-pongs between us. “Recent. Sure.” She taps her pen against the notepad. “Let me guess—grilled cheese and tomato soup for you, turkey sandwich hold the mayo extra pickles for the doctor, and you’re going to share those fries whether you want to or not because that’s what you two always did.”
My chest tightens. She remembers. From high school, she remembers.
“That’s right,” I manage.
“Coming right up. And I’m bringing pie after, and you’re both eating it. No arguments.” She tucks the notepad away without writing anything down. “It’s good to see you, honey. Really. This town wasn’t the same without you.”
She heads back to the kitchen, and Lucas squeezes my hand.
“She likes you,” he says.
“She threatened me with pie.”
“That’s how Millie shows love.”
The food arrives fast—my grilled cheese golden and perfectly crispy, his turkey sandwich boring as ever. He steals fries off my plate before I’ve taken a single bite. I kick him under the table.
Normal. This feels normal.
But underneath it all, there’s a Nate-shaped hole in the conversation. A silence where a third voice should be.
“I should get back,” Lucas says finally, checking his watch.
He kisses me goodbye—right there in the diner, where everyone can see—and I watch him walk out with my chest tight.
Two out of three isn’t bad.
But it’s not enough.
By hourseventy-two of radio silence, I’ve had enough.
“He’s a giant grump,” I announce to Grandma, who’s pretending to read a magazine at the kitchen table. “And he can suck it up.”
“Language, dear.”
“I paid good money for that date. Three hundred and fifty dollars! That’s a month of groceries. That’s half my car payment.” I pace across the kitchen, too agitated to sit. “I won him fair and square, and I’m going to collect.”
Grandma sets down her magazine. Her eyes are sparkling with undisguised pride. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”
“I’m going to the station.” I grab my jacket off the hook. “I’m going to march in there and tell him that he owes me a date, and I don’t care how many feelings he has to process, he’s processing them with me. Today.”
“That’s my girl.” Grandma’s smile is downright devious. “Give him hell, sweetheart.”
“I will.”
“And Cara?”
I pause at the door.
“Wear the green sweater. It brings out your eyes.”
I change into the green sweater.
The Honeyridge FallsSheriff’s Station is a modest building on Main Street—brick facade, American flag out front, a couple of patrol cars parked in the small lot. I’ve driven past it a hundred times since I’ve been back, but I’ve never gone in.
Never had a reason to.
Until now.
