Bev Holloway moves between tables with a coffee pot in one hand, short curls bouncing around her face. She has the kind of smile that makes people confess things accidentally, which is why I have learned to avoid extended eye contact when emotionally unstable.
She stops beside our booth.
“You need more pie.”
I look down at the slice already in front of me.
“I have pie.”
“You need more.”
Joyce nods solemnly. “She does.”
“Traitor.”
Bev’s gaze moves over me, warm and assessing, but she does not ask about the fire. She only sets a hand briefly on my shoulder.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good answer.”
Then she moves away.
Joyce watches her go.
“I want Bev to adopt me.”
“Get in line.”
She turns back to me.
Then smiles.
I immediately distrust her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is never true.”
She takes a sip of coffee.
“So.”
“No.”
“I have not asked anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask how class went.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Fine.”
