Amy folded both hands around her coffee cup.
“What are you afraid she will say?”
Direct. I could have joked. Rose’s advice returned. Don’t turn fear into a joke she has to interpret.
“That I’m being stupid,” I said.
Amy’s guardedness eased.
“You are being stupid.”
“See?”
“But that does not mean she will stop loving you.”
Her certainty carried weight from somewhere else.
“Did your family stop loving you when you made bad decisions?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did Evelyn?”
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
“That was not love ending because of one decision.”
“I understand. I am not discussing her.”
“Okay.”
The server returned with the coffee pot. We waited until she left. Amy looked toward the window.
“My parents live three hours away,” she said. “They were supportive after the breakup. Practically.”
“What does that mean?”
“My mother offered to help divide the furniture. My father researched lease law.”
“Very you.”
“They did not ask how I felt.”
Amy traced a drop of condensation down her water glass. The diner noise filled the pause she left.
“Did you tell them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know how to answer.”
The honesty surprised me. Not because Amy was never honest. Because she usually arrived at honesty after organizing it. This felt unfinished.
“What did you feel?” I asked.
The diner sounds moved around us. Silverware. Coffee pouring. A child laughing near the counter.
