“You said you didn’t want to continue running it,” he points out.
Poor Sam. I’ve been so up and down over the past month, I’m surprised he hasn’t shaken me silly. Instead, he’s been kind and patient.
And hot, but I’m so exhausted, even my libido has gone on vacation.
“I don’t want to run it,” I agree. “And I’m certainly not in the right headspace to hire someone else to do it. I know that selling was the right call, and Reagan will do a wonderful job. Also, Monica used her inheritance when your parents passed away to start the business. This way, that money will go into a trust for the kids. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Then why do you feel guilty?”
“I live my life in a permanent state of guilt.” Sam reaches over to take my hand and gives it a squeeze. “And I know that Monica would roll her eyes and tell me to get over it. To stop it. But I can’t.”
“It hasn’t been long,” he reminds me gently and pulls me to a stop so I don’t walk out in front of traffic. “Red light.”
“Oops, thanks. I’m going to just enjoy a greasy cheeseburger and your company.”
“Good plan. I’ll do the same.”
We hurry across the street and into Ed’s, which is surprisingly quiet for near lunchtime. There’s almost always a wait to be seated because it’s so popular—among the locals and tourists alike.
But today, luck is on our side and the hostess immediately shows us to a booth against the windows.
Ed’s has been in business for longer than either of us has been alive. Ed himself still runs the kitchen, and little about the place has changed in decades. It’s an old-fashioned diner, just like in the movies, with red vinyl seats, a long soda fountain bar, and a jukebox in the corner that plays everything from Elvis to Bon Jovi.
Ed claims he won’t put any music in that thing that was made after 1990.
This diner has been an integral part of my life. We came here for birthday dinners when I was a kid, and after football games in high school. I sat at a nearby table and mooned over Sam as he joked around with his friends across the room.
And this was where Monica told me and Aspen that she was pregnant with the twins.
I take a deep breath and set the menu aside. I don’t have to look at it to know what I want.
“Hey, you two,” Flo, another staple at Ed’s, says as she approaches our table to take our order. “What can I getcha?”
“I’ll have a cheeseburger, no tomato, with fries and mayo on the side. A Coke to drink, please.” I smile at Flo as she writes down my order and then turns to Sam.
“I think I’m in the mood for the BLT, onion rings, and a Coke, as well. Thanks, Flo.”
“You got it. Shouldn’t take long.” She winks and walks away.
“Okay, I admit it. Now that we’re here, I’m hungry.”
Sam grins. “You can never resist Ed’s.”
“It’s true. It’s a drug, and I’m completely addicted. How are things at work? I haven’t even asked you what’s happening with the position in Spokane. I’m sorry. I’m a shitty friend.”
“Nah, we’ve had a bit on our minds.” He shakes his head and rubs his lips together. “The guys in Spokane said they’d hold the position for me for six months. And, of course, the job here didn’t want to lose me in the first place, so everything’s fine.”
“But you sold your house and everything.”
“I’m renting the apartment.” He shrugs. “Honestly, I’m okay. Pissed most of the time, but fine.”
“You hide the anger well.”
“The punching bag at the gym would argue with that.”
I glance around the room and notice that a couple of people are looking our way.
“You know what the worst part of living in a small town is?” I ask him after our drinks are delivered.
“The gossip.” He sips his Coke and also glances around. “We should be used to it by now.”
“It’s never really been aimed at me before,” I admit and squirm in my seat.
“I think people mean well,” he says. “They feel bad.”
“And they think I don’t have ears. Every time I go to the grocery, bank, or…anywhere, they talk as if I’m not even there. ‘Oh, isn’t it sad? Poor Sam and Tash. Stuck with those babies.’ I’m not stuck with anything.”
“People say that?”
“Oh, yeah. And other things. Why can’t they just talk behind my back when I’m not around like normal people? I don’t honestly care about that, I just don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m tired of the constant condolences,” Sam says. “If I hear ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ one more time, I might strangle someone.”
“Amen to that.”
Our food is delivered, and my mouth starts to water.