3. Chapter Three

Nothing says good morning like a phone call from your boss at 5:30 a.m. on what's supposed to be your day off. I manage to roll out of bed and grab my cell phone—why the hell did I leave it in my pants pocket? and how the hell did my pants end up halfway between the doorway and my bed?—just as it rings for the third time.

"Yeah?"

"Good, you're alive."

That's Mel. I can't complain. I owe her too much, especially with everything she's given me in the last nine years since Mom died. But sometimes her bluntness still catches me off guard.

"Mostly," I say, leaning against the doorframe as I close my eyes. "Sorry about last night, I—"

"I need you here for opening," she cuts in, clearly not in the mood for small talk. And she'd never let me finish my apology anyway. She never does. "Chuck had to call out."

"His car won't start again?"

"Something like that. Are you sick? Can you make it?"

"I'm fine. And yeah, I'll be there."

"He'll be out all day. That means you're workin' a double."

As if I need that reminder. But at least it's Saturday, and that means it'll be busy, and that means more tips. Which also means maybe I can finally get caught back up with rent again. I hate being behind.

"Yeah, yeah. That's fine. Good, really. I know I still owe for this month and—"

"Coop, knock it off already. Whenever you've got the money is fine. Be here by six?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks." And she hangs up.

So much for going on a run this morning. And cleaning. And—oh, shit.

I turn to my dresser and pull open the top drawer. Empty.

Shit. No clean laundry. No clean laundry and my house is a fucking mess and I'm a fucking mess. Still. Not that I've ever been anything other than a fucking mess since Mom died, but most days I feel like I've got my shit a little more together. Maybe.

That's definitely not today.

Resigned, I grab the cleanest work shirt I can find from what's in the hamper (and on the bathroom floor) and throw it on with a pair of jeans that will hopefully also pass for clean-ish. Then I brush my teeth and tuck my hair under my baseball cap as I head out. There's a layer of frost on the ground—maybe the first this year, even though it's already late October—and I tuck my hands under my arms to keep them warm as I jog over to my truck. I'd left my coat at the diner last night in my hurry to get the fuck out of there without being seen, so I'm sort of screwed, I guess. Or at least I'll be freezing until I get into town.

But the truck starts right up, pretending to be a dependable little thing, which it's really, really not, and the heater even kicks on. Maybe it's actually my lucky day.

Ha. Right.

I grip the steering wheel tightly and then lower my head to rest on the top rim.

Lucky me. I should count my fucking blessings. My truck starts and I have a steady job that sometimes pays me enough and a roof over my head that I can sometimes afford. I surely won the luck lottery. At least I'm alive.

God, what the fuck is wrong with me? I'm usually not this in my head. Because I do have a lot and a lot to be thankful for. Mel and my job and this truck and the house. Grumpy old Mel. She's the reason I have my job and this truck and the house. Hell, if not for her, I'm not sure where I'd be. Definitely not sitting here, in a slowly warming truck that I bought myself, sitting outside a house that I (usually) pay rent for myself.

Totally winning at this adulting thing. Mom would be so proud.

So fucking proud.

Fuck. I smack my hand against the steering wheel, and the truck's engine sputters a bit but then resumes its uneven rumble.

I know what the fuck is wrong. I do. But I'm going to ignore it because I can't fucking deal with it today. Last night nearly sent me over an edge that I really don't need to step up to again. An edge that I hadn't approached in a long, long time. All because he showed up.

So I'm going to ignore it. Pretend that I'm good, like how my truck's decided to pretend it's a nice reliable thing. I'm going to ignore it and go about my day and pretend that my once-upon-a-time best friend, whom I haven't spoken with since his father caught us kissing in his room and kicked me out, didn't just show up out of nowhere after ten years.

I sit up and put my seat belt on, then get heading into town. If I'm lucky today, maybe I won't see him again. Maybe he just stopped in at the diner as he was passing through. Maybe he's on his way to Garrington. Maybe he just stopped here in White Hills for the amazing food at Mel's Diner. The fucking peach cobbler. I hear it's incredible.

***

The diner is predictably busy almost all day, with a slight lull right in the middle of the afternoon. And it's the usual. The customers are mostly locals whom I know, with a few others sprinkled in here and there, and the tips are good. The booths stay packed, so I don't really have time to stop and think. There's my luck at work again.

Mel sends me on a late lunch break at about two thirty, which leaves me just enough time to eat something and run out to my friend Angie's house to let her old terrier out for a few minutes. I use the term "friend" a bit loosely. She's more of an acquaintance. I don't really have any friends. Decided they weren't worth it a long time ago. But Angie's helped me out more times than I can count, a bit like Mel, actually, and I still have this sense that I owe her. I'm sure she wouldn't see it that way, but I do.

So, at two thirty, I grab a quick burger and then hop back in my truck—which is still pretending that it's a good, dependable vehicle—drive the mile or so to Angie's place, and let myself in.

"Pipes, time to go out, girl!"

The old dog answers with a half-hearted yip, and she drags herself off the couch and shuffles over to the back door. She knows the drill. I open up the door to let her out and check her water and food bowls while she does her business. There are a few dishes in the sink, so I also wash them while I'm waiting.

Like I said, I owe Angie.

I glance down the hallway as I dry the last dish and stick it in the cupboard. The door to what used to be my occasional bedroom is wide open. I think it's Angie's library now. The old futon I used to sleep on is folded up so it can be used as a couch. Or at least, last time I was in there, it was. I haven't set foot in there for years now—not since Mel offered to let me rent her old mobile home when I was caught trying to sneak back into the diner late one night so I could sleep in the extra office. It'd been too fucking cold to sleep in my truck, and Angie had been out of town or something. She hadn't trusted me enough then to let me stay when she wasn't here, which I understand. I was a nineteen-year-old homeless high-school dropout, after all.

Piper scratches at the door to be let back in, and five minutes later, I'm in my truck again and heading toward the diner. I pull around the back of the building into my usual parking spot and then let myself in through the back door. No sooner have I taken off and hung up my coat than I hear Mel's gruff voice coming from the front of the kitchen.

"Oh good, you're back. Did you go all the way to fuckin' Omaha for lunch? What took so long?"

I start to answer—to remind her that I'd only gotten about a half-hour break after an eight-hour shift with absolutely no other break and on what was supposed to be my only day off this week—but she keeps going, motioning toward her office.

"A customer left his wallet here last night. It's in the safe. Black leather. Grab it for me, will ya?"

Before I can answer, she spins back around and disappears out into the dining room, grabbing a pot of coffee on her way. Always on the move. I'm amazed she has the energy at fifty-seven, but she's been running this place for at least thirty years, and I can't see her doing anything else.

I head into her office and scoot around behind her desk to the safe. I'm the only other person besides Mel who knows the code to open it, and she frequently threatens to cut my life short in the most horrendous ways if I tell anyone. But I know that's just for show. I earned her trust a while back.

I input the code, pull open the door, and reach in to grab a plain, black leather wallet, which sits atop a lockbox and a pile of papers. Then I close the door again and make my way through the kitchen, toward the dining room.

Guess it's gonna be this guy's lucky day today too. Losing your wallet fucking sucks. But here at Mel's Diner, we promise to take good care of your lost shit.

I round the corner from the kitchen into the dining room and see a man standing along the end of the counter, his back to me. He's got one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jeans and the other running nervously through his hair. He looks tense. Poor dude, don't worry. I got you.

"Ah, Mr.—" I open up the wallet and glance down. My stomach drops, and my feet quit moving. I might vomit. Again. I clear my throat with a cough that I know sounds as fake as it is. "Mr. Joshua... Miller?"