I started the engine.
“I know a place.”
Twenty-five minutes later, we were sitting in a roadside diner with red vinyl booths, a flickering neon sign, and a waitress who looked as though she had heard every heartbreak in the county.
Karen ordered coffee.
I ordered coffee and apple pie.
She stared at my plate.
“You told me the coffee was terrible.”
“It is.”
“And yet you ordered it.”
“I believe in supporting local businesses, even when they disappoint me.”
For the first time that night, Karen laughed without trying to hide it.
We talked until nearly three in the morning.
We talked about Daniel’s disastrous teenage haircut, the time he accidentally flooded his parents’ laundry room, and my failed attempt to start a landscaping business when I was nineteen.
Then Karen mentioned something that surprised me.
“I always wanted to open a bookstore.”
I put down my fork.
“A bookstore?”
