Find her?—
No.
Not her.
Isa.
By the window.
Boot propped on a chair, crutches resting against the table, hair down, gloss catching the light. She looks like she belongs in a completely different scene than this one, like she walked out of a beach ad and into a rehab appointment.
She sees me and smiles.
Easy.
Warm.
There.
I walk over, set the tray down in front of her, then take her plate without asking and start cutting her food into smaller pieces so she doesn’t have to fight with it.
She watches me the whole time.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did.”
It comes out automatic.
Because that’s what I do.
Fix.
Help.
Take care.
I sit across from her and I can feel it immediately—the attention shifts.
Heads turn.
Whispers drop lower but not enough.
Phones tilt.
“T&T,” someone mutters.
I ignore it.
So does she.
“You hear about Stella?” Isa asks casually.
Too casually.
I catch it.
The way she watches my reaction.
