“You okay?” I asked, softer this time.
She made a face. “Define okay.”
I smiled. “Becca…”
She glanced up at me then, really looked at me, and something in her expression softened. “I don’t hate this,” she admitted. “Us. Sitting here. Not pretending we don’t know each other as well as we do, I mean, did. I don’t know what I mean?—”
“Hey, it’s okay. I don’t hate it either,” I said.
Her mouth curved, just a little. “That might be the most honest thing we’ve said in a long time.”
“Hey,” I protested. “I’m very honest.”
“Mm-hmm.” She nudged my foot under the table, familiar as breathing. “You’re selectively honest depending on timing, and I’m a hot mess.”
I laughed, and she did too, the sound easing something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding tight. It felt like finding an old rhythm, one we’d set down carefully years ago, not broken, just waiting for us to pick it up again. For the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about what had gone wrong. I was thinking about how good it felt to sit across from her and remember what had once gone right.
Savannah reappeared, sliding plates onto the table with practiced ease.
“Shepherd’s pie,” she said, setting it in front of me. “With extra fries.” Steam curled up, carrying the rich scent of beef and gravy. She turned to Becca. “And grilled chicken. No tomato. Extra pickles.”
Becca blinked at her plate, then let out a small laugh as she looked at me. “I swear I consider ordering something else every single time.”
“And every single time, you don’t, do you?” I said.
She shook her head, cheeks warming. “Rude. Accurate, but rude.”
Savannah grinned fondly. “Let me know if you need anything,” she added, then disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving us laughing.
Steam curled up from the plates, the smell rich and familiar—savory gravy, hot fries, the faint tang of pickles. Becca picked up a fry and inspected it like she was considering its moral character.
“I knew you were going to steal those,” I said.
She didn’t even look at me as she bit into the fry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I slid my plate a fraction closer to her. “I’ve accepted my fate.”
That got a real laugh out of her, the kind that tipped her head back slightly. “See? Growth.” She slid her plate to the middle of the table without being asked. “And you know I’ll always share my onion rings with you. That’s just basic fairness.”
We ate for a minute, the comfortable quiet settling back in. Becca hummed softly after her first bite, and then, like it had been pulled out of her against her will: “Okay. I’ll never order anything else. I admit it. This is objectively the best thing I’ve eaten in weeks.”
“High praise. I’ll let the kitchen know.”
She smiled and leaned back in the booth, her shoulders easing by degrees. “This feels familiar.”
“Like old times.”
“Yeah.” Something soft moved through her expression. “Like that.” She turned her fork over in her hand. “Thanks. For this. For not making it weird.”
“We were good at not making things weird,” I said, keeping my voice easy even though it mattered more than I wanted to admit. “Once upon a time.”
“Yeah,” she said. “We were.”
The conversation found its old current after that, drifting the way it used to when we were young—easy, unforced, hopping from one thing to the next without either of us having to work at it. She told me about a job lead that hadn’t worked out, rollingher eyes like she was already tired of being disappointed by it, and I listened without trying to fix anything, which took more effort than she probably knew.
“I swear,” she said, spearing a pickle, “every time I think I’ve got momentum, the universe just—” she made a small deflating sound, “—taps me on the shoulder and goes,actually, no.Every single time.”
“You’ve always been stubborn enough to keep going anyway.”
