“You’re having a boy.”
“Middle name, then.” She takes a bite and moans. “Okay. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Mm.” Nora studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Smiling at everyone while you’re somewhere else entirely.” She tilts her head. “The performance.”
My chest tightens. I shrug. “It’s nine in the morning, Nora. I’m not caffeinated yet.”
“You had an espresso when you arrived. Roz texted me.”
I look over at Roz, who is suddenly focused on wiping a table that’s already clean. “You two are menaces.”
“We’re invested.” Nora’s voice softens. “Jesse says hi. He wants to know if you’re coming to Sunday dinner.”
“Maybe.”
“That means no.” She doesn’t push. That’s one of the things I love about my sister-in-law. “The offer stands.”
We talk about nursery colors and the latest Jesse debate until my shoulders drop a little. This—Nora, Roz’s, the mountain outside the window—is why I came home.
Not the other thing.
The lunch rush blurs past. Eli walks in just after twelve. My cousin has Jesse’s height, Mason’s stubbornness, and none of their tendency toward drama, which makes him the most tolerable Wilde by a significant margin. He drops onto a stool and waits in that quiet Wilde way that always means trouble.
I come up to the counter. “What do you want?”
“Coffee.”
“At noon?”
Eli pushes the empty mug toward me, and I pour. He says nothing, which is how I know he’s deciding to say something I’mnot going to like. “You see the rental car parked out front of the store this morning?”
My hands stay steady. Barely. “Out of state plates?”
“Oregon. But it’s not from Oregon.” His voice stays easy. His eyes don’t.“Seen it three times since Sunday. Always within a block of the diner.”
I pick up a rag and wipe the counter I just cleaned. “Lots of people come through town in spring.”
“Hikers don’t sit in rental cars watching buildings.” He holds my gaze. “Know whose car it is?”
I don’t answer.
Eli lets the silence stretch, then sighs. “Jesse’s up at the cabin. Mason’s at the ranch. My door’s open. Whenever.”
“I’m fine.”
He nods like he expected that answer, finishes his coffee, and stands. “Soph.”
I look up.
“Door’s open,” he repeats, then leaves.
I breathe through the familiar cataloging that rises automatically: exits, sightlines, and distance to the back door. I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles whiten.
