Chapter Fourteen
Hope
“Have a good night, Mr. Patterson,” I called out, following the last customer to the door. The elderly trucker tipped his worn baseball cap at me, his weathered face creasing into a smile.
“You too, sweetheart. Drive safe.”
I locked the door behind him, flipping the deadbolt with a soft click that echoed through the now-empty diner. The neon “OPEN” sign buzzed faintly above my head, casting red and blue shadows across the checkered floor. I reached up and switched it off, plunging the front windows into darkness.
When I turned around, Stacey was wiping down the counter, her movements efficient and practiced. She glanced up at me, her blonde ponytail swinging as she worked.
“You want me to start on the booths?” she asked.
I shook my head, already reaching for the spray bottle and rag she had left on the counter. “No, I’ve got it. You should head home early. Be with your little boy.”
Stacey paused, her hand stilling on the counter. “You sure? I don’t mind staying.”
“I’m sure.” I forced a smile that felt brittle on my face. “Go. Enjoy your evening.”
She studied me for a moment, her eyes searching mine with that perceptive look she always had. The one that saw too much, understood too much. But she didn’t push. She never did.
“Thanks, Hope.” She untied her apron and hung it on the hook by the kitchen door. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Anytime.”
She grabbed her purse from the back office and headed for the rear exit, pausing at the door to look back at me. “You okay?”
The question hung in the air between us, weighted with all the things she wasn’t saying. All the things she had noticed over the past two weeks. The way I had gone through the motions, the hollow smile, the distance I kept even from myself.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way her mouth tightened, the way her hand lingered on the doorframe. But she nodded anyway. “Lock up behind me, okay?”
“I will.”
The door swung shut with a soft thud, and then I was alone.
The silence pressed in around me, thick and suffocating. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh white light across the empty booths and abandoned tables. The smell of coffee and grease hung in the air, familiar and comforting in a way that made my chest ache.
I moved through the diner on autopilot, spraying down tables and wiping them clean. The motions were soothing, repetitive, mindless, requiring nothing of me but muscle memory. I didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to feel.
I just worked. But my mind wouldn’t stay quiet.
It kept circling back to him. To the way he had looked at me behind the garage, his face stricken with shock and something that looked like horror.
To the way he walked away without looking back, his broad shoulders rigid with tension as he disappeared into the crowd.
To the way he whispered Julie against my skin while he moved inside me.
I scrubbed harder at a stubborn coffee ring, my jaw clenched tight against the burn in my throat. Two weeks. It had been two weeks since the barbecue, and I hadn’t heard a word from him. Hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t even glimpsed his motorcycle on the roads around Lawton.
It was like he had vanished. Like I had imagined the whole thing.
Except I hadn’t. I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, the weight of his body pressing me into the grass, the way he looked at me in the moonlight like I was everything he ever wanted—stop.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the memories back down where they belonged.
Buried. Hidden. Locked away in the part of my heart that I couldn’t afford to examine too closely.
Because if I did, I would fall apart. And I couldn’t afford to fall apart.
Not here. Not now. Not when I had tables to clean and a life to live and a future to figure out that didn’t include a man who called me by another woman’s name.
I moved to the next booth, spraying and wiping with mechanical precision. The rag squeaked against the vinyl seats, the sound grating in the quiet. Outside, the parking lot was dark except for a single streetlight near the road. Its yellow glow barely reached the diner’s front windows.
I was so lost in my own mind that I almost didn’t hear it.
A knock. Soft. Hesitant. Three gentle raps against the glass door.
I froze, my hand stilling mid-wipe. My heart kicked hard against my ribs, a sudden jolt of adrenaline that made my fingers tighten around the rag as I slowly turned toward the door and stopped dead.
He was standing there. The man who had broken me and put me back together and broken me all over again in the span of a single night.
He stood on the other side of the glass, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, his long black hair falling around his face. The streetlight cast shadows across his features, making him look older, harder, and more dangerous than I remembered.
But his eyes—God, his eyes—were the same.
Dark and haunted and filled with something I couldn’t name.
We stared at each other through the glass, the silence stretching between us like a living thing.
My pulse thundered in my ears, so loud I was sure he could hear it even through the door.
My hands trembled, and I set the spray bottle down on the nearest table before I dropped it.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness.
I should have turned away. Should have pretended I didn’t see him, finished cleaning, and left through the back door like Stacey had.
Should have protected myself from whatever this was, whatever he wanted. But I didn’t.
Instead, I walked toward him. Each step felt like wading through water, my legs heavy and uncooperative. The distance between us was only a few feet, but it felt like miles. Like crossing a chasm I’d never be able to uncross.
When I reached the door, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the deadbolt.
He was so close now. Close enough that I could see the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched tight, as though he was barely holding himself together.
He looked as I felt. Broken.
My hand moved before my brain could catch up, turning the deadbolt with a soft click. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the quiet, final and irreversible.
I pulled the door open. The night air rushed in, cool and crisp, carrying the scent of asphalt and distant rain. He didn’t step inside immediately—just stood there on the threshold, his eyes locked on mine, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.
“What are you doing here?” My voice came out softer than I intended, barely more than a whisper.
He swallowed hard, his throat working. “We need to talk.”
Four words. Simple. Direct. But they landed like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from my lungs.
I nodded slowly, not trusting myself to speak.
Not trusting that my voice wouldn’t crack and give away just how much those four words affected me.
Then I stepped back, holding the door open wider in silent invitation.
He hesitated for just a moment. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face, and then he stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud, and suddenly the diner felt smaller. Warmer. Like the walls had moved closer, trapping us in this moment together.
I turned away from him, needing distance, needing something to do with my hands before I did something stupid like reach for him.
I walked behind the counter, my movements stiff and mechanical, and grabbed the pot of coffee from the warmer.
It was still hot—fresh from the last brew I made an hour ago.
I pulled two mugs from the shelf, the ceramic cool and solid in my trembling hands.
“Sit,” I said quietly, not looking at him.
I heard him move. The soft scuff of his boots against the linoleum, the creak of vinyl as he slid into one of the booths near the window. I carried the coffeepot and mugs over, setting them down on the table with a soft clink, and then I slid into the booth across from him.
The vinyl was cold against the back of my thighs, even through my jeans. I focused on that sensation. The chill, the slight stickiness of the seat, the way the table was just a little too high for comfort. Anything to keep from looking at him. Anything to keep from falling apart.
I poured coffee into both mugs, watching the dark liquid swirl and steam. The smell was rich and bitter, grounding me in the present moment. My hands were steadier now. The familiar ritual of pouring coffee gave me something to anchor to.
When both mugs were full, I set the pot down and wrapped my hands around my cup, letting the heat seep into my palms.
And then, finally, I looked up at him. He was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Something raw and vulnerable and terrified all at once. His hands were flat on the table, his fingers spread wide like he was bracing himself.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and expectant.
And then he spoke.
“Hope, I—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” I muttered, interrupting him. “It was my fault, really.”
His jaw clenched, and something dark flashed across his face. Not anger, but something sharper. Harsher. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Don’t do that.”
I blinked, my fingers tightening around the mug. “Don’t do what?”
“Take the blame for what I did.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking on mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “I was drunk. I was out of my goddamn mind with grief. I thought you were—” He stopped, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “I thought you were someone else.”
The words hung between us, sharp and cutting.
Julie. He didn’t say her name, but I heard it anyway. Felt it settle into the space between us like a third person sitting at the table.