The words land like a body hitting pavement. The booth goes silent, the diner around us suddenly muted, like the world has braced itself for the echo.
Molly’s expression softens; her lips part, and she forgets her irritation for a second.
“How?” she says, her voice a notch quieter.
“Car accident,” I say. The words come out flat because if I let them come out real, I’ll crack. “It happened not long after that night we almost…”
Molly’s throat bobs. “Jesus.”
I nod once. “It happened out of state. They were on a trip. After that, it was just me and June.”
Her eyes soften at the name. “Your sister.”
“Yeah.”
“How old was she?”
The memory of June at that age — scrawny and brittle, wary of everything — makes my chest hurt.
“Eleven,” I say. “She just turned eleven.”
Molly closes her eyes for a second and lets the information settle. “Fuck.”
“She was a kid,” I say, firmer. “And I had to become… everything. Overnight.”
Molly’s fingers curl around her coffee mug like she needs the warmth. “So you left.”
“We left,” I say. “I know I didn’t handle everything right… I didn’t know what to do. I mean, suddenly, I was all June had and had to figure life out for us both. I made a lot of mistakes. I know there were people I should’ve told or things I could’ve done better, but, fuck, I was so scared. After mom and dad died, I needed a lot of help… We went up north. Stayed with some relatives outside of Seattle. I got work where I could. Money was tight, so I did what I had to do.”
She’s quiet, but she’s watching me, and I can tell she’s reconstructing the silhouette of my past, patching in the holes with the things I never told her.
“And now you’re back,” she says, finally.
“I’m back.”
“Why?” Her eyes lock on mine. “Don’t give me a Hallmark answer.”
I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I give her as much as I think I can.
“Work brought me here. Contracting, mostly — fixing things. Small jobs. Repairs.”
Molly’s gaze drops to my hands. My knuckles. The faint old scars that don’t match ‘normal guy in a beige sedan.’
“Fixing things,” she says, as if she’s tasting the lie.
“Jack of all trades,” I say. “Mostly small jobs. Sometimes it’s plumbing, sometimes patching drywall, sometimes people call me when their porch starts to sag and they don’t want to pay union rates. I move around a lot, pick up what I can. I’m not picky.”
“And June?” she says.
My chest tightens. “June’s my priority.”
Molly’s lashes lower. “Still?”
“Always.”
Something shifts in her face — softens, opens. The suspicion doesn’t vanish, but it loosens enough for something else to slip through.
Respect.
