We sit in silence.
Then Molly reaches across the table and grabs my hand. "I'm sorry."
The words crack something open inside my chest.
"I should've called." Her voice breaks. "Should've checked on you. I didn't know what to say, and then it had been so long, and I felt like such a shitty friend—"
"It's okay," I whisper.
"It's not." Her eyes shine. "You're going through hell and I disappeared."
The dam breaks.
I don't mean to cry. Don't want to. But suddenly I'm sobbing—ugly, gasping sounds that shake my whole body—and Molly slides around to my side of the booth, pulling me against her shoulder.
"I've got you," she murmurs, one hand stroking my hair. "I've got you."
And I let myself shatter.
I tell her everything. How Dad won't defend himself. How people look at me like I'm something dirty they stepped in. How I miss Jordan so much it's a physical ache in my chest. How every morning I wake up and forget for one perfect second, then reality crashes back and I remember all over again.
Molly doesn't tell me it'll be okay. Doesn't offer empty platitudes. She just holds me and lets me break.
Eventually, the sobs slow to hiccups. My breathing steadies.
"Here." She pushes the coffee toward me. "Drink. You'll feel better."
I'm too wrung out to argue. The cup is lukewarm now, slightly bitter on my tongue, but it's something warm and real in my hands. Something to anchor me.
We sit like that—her arm around my shoulders, my head against her collarbone—until my breathing fully evens out. The cook's disappeared into the back. Mr. Chen must have left at some point. It's just us and the hum of the ancient refrigerator.
"Thank you," I finally whisper.
"Always," Molly says.
I take another sip. Then another. By the time I drain the cup, something feels... off.
My head feels light. Floaty.
Heat blooms under my skin, spreading from my chest outward. My clothes feel too tight, too warm. There's a restlessness building in my body, something I can't name.
I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable.
Then—with a flush of mortification—I realize what this is.
I'm aroused.
Oh God.
It's been a month. A whole month since I've seen Jordan, touched Jordan, been held by anyone except my grieving mother. The floodgates must have opened when I let myself cry about him. When I let myselffeelfor the first time in weeks.
My body doesn't care about context. Doesn't understand that I'm sitting in a diner booth with my best friend. It only knows I talked about Jordan, thought about Jordan, remembered what it felt like to be wanted—
And now every nerve ending is screaming for something I can't have.
Heat crawls up my neck. My pulse pounds in places it shouldn't.
This is humiliating.
