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“Thank you.”
“They tipped badly.”
“Monsters.”
“One asked whether Savannah seemed in love.”
I stopped chewing.
Rosa wiped the counter.
“What did you say?”
“That she ordered three pies.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It was enough.”
I put down my fork.
“Rosa.”
She met my eyes.
“I said nothing about you.”
“I know.”
“You are allowed to be angry with her.”
“I know.”
“And miss her.”
“I know.”
“And finish your toast.”
I picked up the fork.
Rosa nodded approvingly.
Her phone rested near the register. The screen lit with a notification, showing a paused video of Savannah onstage.
White spotlight.
Guitar.
Green bracelet.
I looked away.
Rosa noticed.
“She sang the song you like.”
“It isn’t my song.”
