I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
The coffee comes out too quickly, hands shaking just a little as Lazlo pours it, and I notice things I didn’t want to notice before: the new cracks in the ceiling, the stack of unopened mail, the way the furniture looks more worn than it should.
“That husband of yours,” Milo starts as I sip bitter coffee, a little ashamed to compare it to the sublime Java blend Giovanni’s housekeeper serves, “he insisted he didn’t hurt you. That you’d skipped town over a misunderstanding and a fight. That true?”
They both peer intently at me as I swallow, then nod.
“True-ish.”
They tense.
“Meaning?” Lazlo pushes. “We need to go over there, teach him a coupla lessons?”
I almost smile at the unlikely scenario, but I know they’ve been seriously worried about me.
“It was a little more than a misunderstanding, but it’s true. He didn’t hurt me like you think. He would never.” At least I can say that with a certainty.
They exchange a glance. Then nod.
I take another sip, then set my mug down.
“How’ve things been?” I ask carefully.
The silence that follows is too heavy.
Milo exhales slowly. “We’ve… had better years.”
My stomach drops.
Their business, a towing and auto repair shop, small, honest, built on sweat and stubborn pride, has always walked a thin line. Enough to live, never enough to coast.
And eighteen months is a long time for anything fragile to hold.
“Costs went up,” Lazlo adds. “Jobs dried up. We managed for a while.”
“And now?” I press.
They exchange another look I don’t like.
“And now we’re running out of rope,” Milo finishes.
The room tilts.
I swallow hard.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I would’ve come back,” I say fiercely. “I would’ve helped.”
Lazlo snorts softly.
“With what, Lu? You think money falls out of the sky?”
“No,” I snap, even as my unease grows. “But I also know the places you think is easiest to look for them isn’t always the right place.”
That lands, and I know I’m onto something when Milo’s jaw tightens.
“We didn’t go looking for him.”
My blood chills.
