Chapter 30
MAPLE
He sat in the booth nearest the door. The booth where he always sat. The booth I had been saving for him.
I was making the next cup of coffee. My hands moving. My hair in its knot. My apron stained with flour and butter.
In the back booth, baby Caleb slept in a Moses basket, one small fist curled against his cheek.
I looked at him.
He ordered pie.
I warmed it. Cut it. Slid it across the counter with ice cream on the side.
“Best pie in Minnesota,” he said.
What he meant was: I know that you came to this town terrified. I know that you almost lost everything. I know that you kept fighting. I know that you let me help you.
I said, “I know.”
What I meant was: I know that you could have left. I know that you stayed.
He took a bite. The pie was warm. The crust was flaky. The apples were tart and sweet. This was the pie that had saved my diner. This was the pie that had saved me. And in being saved, I had saved him.
“Best wife in Minnesota,” he said.
What he meant was: I know that this was improbable. I know that this should not have happened. I know that you chose me when you didn’t have to. I know that you’re choosing me again, right now, today, and every day.
I said, “I know that too.”
What I meant was: I know that you came broken. I know that you stayed anyway. I know that love is a choice. I know that you’re making it.
He said, “Best life in Minnesota.”
I said, “That’s the one you worked for.”
“That’s the one I stayed for,” he said.
I said, “I know.”
And what I knew was this: Tomorrow at 4:58 a.m., he would come back. He would sit in this booth. He would order black coffee and pie. He would watch me move around the diner the way he always watched. Because I had earned it.
He was going to watch our son learn what it meant to have a father. He was going to teach him about showing up. About staying. About choosing to stay even when staying was hard.
He was going to count the days.
Three hundred sixty-six.
Three hundred sixty-seven.
Three hundred sixty-eight.
Every day.
Every morning.
Every minute that he sat in this booth and watched me work and understood that he had been given something he did not deserve. Every minute that he was not running. Every minute that he was staying.
He had counted to three hundred sixty-five.
He had counted to three hundred sixty-six.
He would keep counting.
Tomorrow he would be back at 4:58. Exactly one year, and then another one after that. He would sit in this booth. He would watch me the way he was watching me now — like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
He would keep counting.