Page 67 of The Coach

Though we shared an intimate twenty-four hours, she’s a virtual stranger.

I don’t know her middle name.

I don’t know her biggest fear.

I don’t know her favorite way to spend a Sunday morning.

But I know she’s carrying my baby.

I glance at her just as the server arrives.

And Ivy?

Ivy lights up.

Not in the fake, forced way people turn on a customer-service smile. It’s real. Warm. Like she actually gives a damn.

“Oh my gosh, hi,” she says, beaming up at the server. “Sorry, I know we’re probably the worst table ever. We haven’t even looked at the menu yet.”

The server, a woman with nervous energy and a half-filled water pitcher, blinks like she wasn’t expecting that level of friendliness.

“Oh! No, no, you’re totally fine,” she says quickly. “Take your time.”

Ivy tilts her head. “What’s your name?”

The server blushes. “Oh, um—Lena.”

“Well, Lena, you are killing it tonight,” Ivy says seriously. “This place is packed, and I bet you haven’t had a break in, like, five hours.”

Lena lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Six, actually.”

Ivy presses a hand to her chest. “Bless you. If we take forever, just throw something at us.”

Lena laughs for real this time, tension melting from her shoulders. “You got it.”

Ivy nods, genuine and unhurried. “Okay, I think I’ll start with a ginger ale, if you have it.”

“Absolutely,” Lena says, turning to me. “And for you, sir?”

I realize I’ve been staring.

I clear my throat. “Uh, just a water.”

Lena nods and leaves, but not before giving Ivy a grateful glance.

I sit back, watching Ivy, this woman I barely know.

They say the way a person treats a server tells you everything you need to know about them.

And Ivy?

She’s good.

Really good.

I drag a hand down my jaw, exhaling slowly.

I’m in so much fucking trouble.

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