Molly
The Ironwood Diner’s neon sign spits red and orange across the parking lot when I pull in, buzzing with the sickly persistence of a bug zapper in mid-August. It’s just past one, the hour when only shift workers, ghosts, and trouble still walk the streets. My truck grinds into gear, clattering over a pothole and shuddering to a stop beneath a streetlamp that flickers a Morse code warning — don’t, don’t, don’t — before settling into a dull, dying glow. The chill tonight sticks to the skin, wet and heavy, like someone’s breathing down your neck.
Evan’s sedan is already here.
Of course it is.
He’s not inside. He’s out by his driver’s door, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he’s been walking circles. When my headlights sweep over him, he looks up fast, as if he feels me before he sees me.
I kill the engine and sit for half a breath, staring through the windshield.
Then I shove the door open and climb out.
Evan meets me halfway across the cracked asphalt. No smile this time. No easy flirt. Just that steady look in his eyes that makes my stomach do something stupid.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m here,” I say. “That’s as okay as I get at the end of a shift.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh but knows better. “Fair.”
A truck rumbles past on the road behind the diner, tires hissing on wet pavement. The lot smells like fryer grease and old coffee. A couple of smokers stand near the entrance, hunched in hoodies, not paying us any mind.
Evan glances toward the street as if he’s checking angles.
“What is this?” I ask, sharp. “Because you said you were waiting, not… lurking.”
“I’m not lurking,” he says, then immediately looks like he knows that sounded like lurking. “Come on.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Get in your truck. Follow me,” he says.
My spine stiffens. “No.”
His eyebrows lift, just slightly. “What’s wrong?”
“No.” I jab a finger toward the diner door. “If you want to talk, we can talk in there. Under fluorescent lights. Near witnesses. Nearpancakes.”
His gaze holds mine — steady, serious, confused. “No, not in there.”
“Why not? I’ve been on my feet all damn day and night and they have pancakes, so if you better have a damn good reason why not.”
He exhales, slow. “Molly, just trust me for five minutes.”
Trust.The word snaps something in my chest. Like it’s a simple thing. Like it doesn’t come with teeth marks.
I take a step back on instinct. “I don’t follow men into the dark.”
Evan’s jaw tightens. He looks at me like he’s weighing options, then he lifts both hands, palms out. “Okay. Then don’t. But listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
He steps closer again, close enough that I can smell him. Leather, pine, a faint trace of engine oil. His voice drops even lower.
“Do you remember senior year?” he asks.
My throat goes tight. “Yeah.”
