I watch her as she talks, noticing the change in her posture and the way her voice smooths out as she continues.
“She worked all the time. Still does. She’s a waitress at a diner. She works long shifts.”
“No father?” I ask.
She looks right at me. “No father.”
There’s no bitterness in it, only fact, and that alone says more than anything else could.
“She did everything herself,” Maggie continues. “Never complained or made me feel like I was too much.”
Her voice turns reflective on that last part, and her fingers curl slightly against the sofa.
I nod once. “She sounds strong.”
“She is.” There’s pride in that, quiet but firm. “And I have Jules.”
I glance at her. “Your friend from the shelter.”
“He’s my best friend,” she says, smiling a little at the thought. “My chosen family. He’s been there through thick and thin with me.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He started as a volunteer,” she says. “Just showed up one afternoon, said he wanted to help out. I figured he’d last maybe a week.” She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “But we had a rough rescue one night, a real mess, and he stayed. Didn’t complain or walk out when it got hard. That stuck with me.”
Her fingers run along the stem of her glass as she continues. “After that, he just kept showing up. Day after day. Guess the place got under his skin a little, like it did mine.”
She glances at me, a hint of warmth in her expression. “It gave him purpose, I think. Somewhere along the way, he stopped bein’ just a volunteer. He’s family now. My family.” A small smile plays on her lips. “Been side by side for five years. He runs his mouth more than he should, thinks he’s the funniest thing Godever made, but he knows when to quit. And he knows when I need him.”
“He saw something worth staying for,” I say, my attention on her. I hold her eyes, already knowing I wouldn’t have left.
Her breath gets uneven, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. I watch her closely, the way her pupils widen, giving her away even when she tries not to.
“How’d you end up with the shelter?” I ask. “At your age.”
She lifts a brow at that. “My age?”
“You’re young to run an operation like that.”
A small huff leaves her, almost a laugh. “I’m twenty-nine, not some kid.”
“I didn’t say you were,” I reply, still focused on her. “Just not what I expected.”
She studies me quietly. “And what exactly were you expectin’?”
“Someone older. Someone who’s had more time to build it.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “Well, I didn’t exactly plan it that way.” She chew on her bottom lip, then adds, “You mean someone your age?”
“My age?” I repeat.
She tilts her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “You’re what, thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-seven,” she echoes. “Well… you wear it well.”
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away.
