They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the noise of the restaurant fading into background static. It was strange how loss could create an instant connection between strangers, how shared pain could build bridges faster than any small talk.
"What was her name?" Carmen asked.
"Bryn. She was," Bree's voice caught, "she was my best friend. My anchor. I don't really know who I am without her."
Carmen reached across the table and squeezed Bree's hand. "You're you. That doesn't change just because she's gone. It just," she paused, "it just takes time to remember that."
The waitress returned with their food, breaking the moment, but the warmth of Carmen's words stayed with Bree as they began to eat. They talked about other things then: Carmen's work as a physical therapist, Bree's painting, the beauty of Copper Moon in early summer.
"So you paint?" Carmen asked, spearing a piece of sausage. "What kind of art?"
"Landscapes, mostly. Some abstract pieces when I'm feeling emotional." Bree smiled. "Bryn used to say my paintings were like windows into how I was feeling. Happy paintings when life was good, stormy ones when things were hard."
"Have you painted since she died?"
"Not really. I've tried a few times, but," Bree shrugged, "nothing comes out right."
"Maybe that's okay," Carmen said. "Maybe you're not supposed to paint right now. Maybe you're supposed to just be."
Bree looked out the window, watching the morning sun climb higher in the sky. Below, teams were still working on their vehicles, preparing for whatever came next. She couldn't see Hank's team from here, but she knew they were out there somewhere.
"My therapist said something similar," Bree admitted. "That I needed to stop trying to force myself through grief and just let it be what it is."
"Smart therapist."
"She also said I needed to get out of my house, stop isolating myself." Bree laughed softly. "I'm not sure she meant come to a racing event, but here I am."
"Here you are," Carmen echoed. "And maybe this is exactly what you need. Not quiet, not isolation, but life. Noise. People doing things they're passionate about. Energy."
Bree thought about that as she finished her omelet. Maybe Carmen was right. Maybe peace didn't have to mean silence. Maybe it could mean being in a place Bryn had loved, surrounded by people who were fully alive, fully engaged in something that mattered to them.
Maybe peace could mean watching a man with careful hands work on a vintage motorcycle, feeling her heart skip for the first time in months, and not feeling guilty about it.
"You know what?" Bree said, setting down her fork. "I think you might be onto something."
Carmen grinned. "I usually am. Now, tell me more about this friend who sent you here without warning you about race week. That seems like something we need to discuss."
Bree laughed, and for the first time since arriving in Copper Moon, felt something in her chest loosen. Not heal, exactly, but shift. Making room for something new alongside the grief.
Hope, maybe.
Or at least, possibility.
They finished breakfast, talking about Blake's questionable planning skills, Carmen's sister's racing team, and the best places in Copper Moon to find actual quiet when you needed it. By the time they paid their bills and stood to leave, Bree felt lighter than she had in months.
She glanced across the room and saw Hank and his friends sitting at a table. Their eyes met, and she smiled. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest when he stood and strolled toward her. She swallowed when he stopped at their table. "Hi."
"I think that's my cue," the woman said, standing smoothly. She touched Bree's shoulder as she passed. "I'll be at the counter. Take your time."
Chapter 6
The café smelled like coffee, bacon, and possibility.
Hank pushed through the door with Brian and Colby right behind him, their voices still carrying the energy of the morning's work. They'd spent three hours fine-tuning Julie's engine, adjusting the carburetor until she purred like a contented cat, and now his hands were clean, but his shirt still carried the faint scent of motor oil.
He was hungry, wired on adrenaline, and ready for a meal that didn't come from a vending machine.
"Table by the window," Brian called out, already heading that direction without waiting for consensus.
