He had seemed so real in the diner, yet the expensive gold watch and the driver in the black suit felt like a story from another town entirely.
A sudden draft shook the kitchen window, making the glass rattle in its old wooden frame.
I wondered if he was looking for the girl I used to be, or if he was simply lonely in that large, quiet life he had built.
A man with that much polish did not usually look backward unless he was searching for something he had lost along the way.
I closed the yearbook, but the boy behind the bleachers refused to stay in the past.
The cherry pie at the Korner Kitchen always had too much cornstarch, but Garrett did not seem to mind. He scraped the last of the red filling from his plate with his fork, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Margaret calls every Sunday afternoon at exactly four,” Garrett said, setting his fork down with a small clink. “Daniel is usually on the extension from his office in Indianapolis, though he mostly just mumbles his hello.”
