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"What happened?"

I take a drink of coffee. "My mom got sick. I came home."

Diego's expression changes. "And then?"

"She died."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks." He looks down at his plate for a second.

"And that's when you joined?"

"Not right away. But yeah. Not long after."

He looks at me again. "So you really are a chef."

"I really am not."

"You went to culinary school for two years."

"Still not a chef."

Diego smiles. "I'm going to need more evidence." He gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me. I let him have it.

We're halfway through a second cup of coffee when Diego turns the mug slowly between his hands. "I have class tomorrow morning."

"What time?"

"Ten."

"That's not bad."

"Then work at three."

"At the garage?"

He nods. "So I should probably leave by one. Two at the latest."

I glance at the clock behind the counter. There's still time. And sitting in the back of my truck is a box I almost left at home this morning. I brought it anyway. Just in case. I don't mention it. Not yet.

Diego looks down at his coffee. "Can I ask you something?"

There it is. "Anything."

He lifts his eyes to mine. "Why didn't you ever call?"

I knew the question would come eventually. It still takes me a second. "I should have."

He waits.

"I could give you a long answer."

"Is there one?"

"Yeah."

"What's the short one?"