"Carmen Reyes." The woman gestured to the empty chair across from her. "Please, sit. I was starting to feel like I was taking up too much real estate."
Bree settled into the chair, grateful for the woman's easy manner. Carmen had the kind of confidence that put people at ease, the kind that came from being comfortable in her own skin.
"Are you here for the race?" Carmen asked, setting her phone aside.
"Accidentally," Bree said, then laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. "A friend suggested I come to Copper Moon for some peace and quiet. He forgot to mention it was race weekend."
Carmen's laugh was rich and genuine. "Peace and quiet during race week. Oh honey, that's like looking for silence at a rock concert."
"I'm starting to realize that."
A waitress appeared, harried but smiling, and took their orders. Bree asked for an omelet and toast; Carmen ordered the breakfast special with enough food for two people.
"Stress eating," Carmen explained when the waitress left. "My sister's working the race, and I'm a nervous wreck about it."
"Working as in racing?"
“Heidi’s the one who handles all the Red Dragons’ design work,” Carmen added, rolling her eyes. “She’s brilliant with engines and aesthetics, but she’s also… intense. Race week makes her impossible to live with.”
Bree smiled. “Sounds like sisters.”
“You’ll meet her sooner or later,” Carmen said. “Trust me, she’ll make sure of it.”
Carmen took a sip of her coffee. "What about you? What brings you to Copper Moon, besides the accidental timing?"
Bree traced the rim of her water glass, considering how much to share. Something about Carmen's open expression and the genuine interest in her eyes made the truth easier to say.
"My sister used to come here. She passed away a year ago, and I thought," she paused, searching for the right words, "I thought maybe being here would help me feel close to her again."
Carmen's expression softened. "I'm so sorry. A year is nothing, really. Not when it comes to grief."
"No," Bree agreed quietly. "It's not."
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."
