I want a life that includes Winnie by my side.
I blow out the candle.
When I open my eyes, she’s smiling—that soft, real smile that makes my chest ache.
“What did you wish for?”
“Can’t tell you. Won’t come true.”
Her smile widens. “Fair enough.” She pulls the candle out of the cupcake and hands it to me. “Happy birthday, tough guy.”
I take the cupcake. Our fingers brush during the transfer, and I feel that contact all the way up my arm.
“Thank you,” I say. The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have.
“You’re welcome.” She tilts her head. “What are you doing today?”
“Nothing.”
“Wrong answer.” She takes my free hand—bold, easy, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m taking you to lunch.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know. I want to.” She tugs me toward the parking lot. “Come on. I know a place.”
The place is a diner.
Not a fancy restaurant. Not somewhere withwhite tablecloths, wine lists, and outrageous prices. Just a diner—cracked vinyl booths, laminated menus, and a jukebox in the corner that probably hasn’t worked since 1987.
It’s perfect. And I’m starving.
“I used to come here all the time for dinner when I first moved to the city,” Winnie explains as we slide into a booth near the window. “Whenever I was homesick, stressed, or just needed comfort food. Best pancakes in Brooklyn.”
“Pancakes for dinner?”
“Breakfast for dinner is the superior meal choice. Don’t argue with me on this.”
I don’t argue. I’m too busy watching her—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way her eyes light up when she talks about something she loves, and the way she makes even a run-down diner feel like somewhere special.
We order. She gets pancakes and bacon. I get a burger and fries because I’m not convinced about the breakfast-for-dinner thing, no matter how enthusiastically she argues for it. The food comes quickly, served by a waitress who calls us both “hon” and doesn’t seem to recognize me. Fine by me.
It’s nice. Being anonymous. Being normal.
“So,” Winnie says, pouring an obscene amount of syrup on her pancakes, “thirty years old. How are you feeling about it?”
“Same as I felt about twenty-nine. And twenty-eight. And every year before that.”
“Which is?”
I shrug. “I don’t really think about it.”
“You don’t think about getting older? About what you want your life to look like?”
“I think about hockey. About staying healthy enough to keep playing. The rest…” I trail off. “I don’t know. I’ve never been good at planning for the future.”
“Why not?”
The question is simple, but the answer isn’t. I take a bite of my burger, chewing slowly, trying to figure out how much to say.
