Page 44 of Love Felt Like This

“Bevvy?”

I walk over and loop my hand through the crook of her arm, leaning in to mutter, “This is a town hall. Why didn’t you tell me this was a town hall?”

“Didn’t think that detail mattered.”

“I should not be here,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m meeting Griffin.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s today?”

“Yes,” I whine.

She nods to herself as if thinking, then finally says, “You know what? That’s completely fine. We’ll figure it out.” She pats my hand. “Maybe it’s good you’re here. We have lots to talk about.”

“But Griffin is—”

“I know, and—”

“What can I get you, Ma?” my mom asks.

“Coffee,” she says, leading us to an empty booth. “For me and Bev.”

I smile despite my blood pressure rising. She knows coffee is the way to my heart.

We take our seats across from each other, and I remove my thick coat, then set it on the seat beside me. “Now,” she says, all business. “This is all going to be fine. How far away is Griffin?”

“Probably five minutes.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, shoot. Okay, I mean, yes, that’s good. That’s good.” She’s repeating herself, as if now parsing the situation on overdrive.

“Is it?” I near-hiss.

The kitchen door kicks open. Uncle Greg emerges from the back with two cups of coffee nearly overflowing. He wears a tie-dyed shirt and cargo pants. His messy blond hair is in a hair net that looks more like a bird’s nest.

“Hey, you made it!” he says. His face falls. “Wait, I thought you didn’t want to attend a town hall. Isn’t the musician guy coming today?”

I place my thumbs on my temples and churn into my skin.

What have I done?

“Okey dokey, then,” he says. “Existential-crisis time. Good to know. Well, I’ve got your coffee.”

My Uncle Greg always jumped from job to job when I was younger. He has degrees in both art and poultry science and somehow always found work, but I couldn’t tell you what he did. After his divorce, he decided to work full-time at the diner. Painting and chickens are for happy people, he once told me. That was five years ago, though. Now, Uncle Greg is the happiest person I know.

He slides the cups onto the table, along with my usual pile of sugar packets. Before I can take a sip, my phone buzzes.

Griffin: It says I’m here (Sent with Car Assist)

Oh God.

I look out the window, expecting to see him like a poltergeist haunting me, but there’s only fogged glass.

Beverly: The diner is past the brick buildings.

Fran sighs wistfully from the bar. “Gosh, this brings me back.”