Page 9 of Wings
“Fine,” the waitress said, mock-stern. “But I’m adding strawberries so you don’t scurvy on my watch.”
“Deal.” I winked at her. “Preventative medicine.”
"You want the rainbow sprinkles too, honey?" Her voice held the kind of maternal warmth that made my chest tight. "They're free for anyone who looks like they're running on fumes."
I nodded, unable to trust my voice. She bustled away, pink uniform swishing, and I risked a glance at Doc. He was already reading the sports section, giving me the gift of pretending nothing unusual had happened. But I caught the slight softening around his eyes, the way he turned the page more gently than necessary.
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Doc had mastered the art of being present without being intrusive, of offering company without demanding conversation. I wrapped my hands around the coffee mug, letting the heat seep into fingers that always seemed cold these days.
"New security protocol's simple enough," he said, like we were continuing a conversation instead of starting one. "Young guy'll meet you at the usual spot. Goes by Wings. You’ll know him by his prosthetic leg. And the fact he looks like a biker, of course."
Prosthetic. Young. I filed the information away in the part of my brain that still functioned, the part that kept track of details that might matter later.
Donna returned with our food, setting my plate down with a flourish. The pancakes were perfect circles, chocolate chips melting into puddles of sweetness, whipped cream piled high enough to ski down. The hot chocolate came in a mug shaped like a teddy bear, tiny marshmallows floating like life rafts.And yes, rainbow sprinkles scattered over everything like edible confetti.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"You eat up, sweetheart." She patted my shoulder, a touch so gentle I almost cried. "Sometimes we all need a little sweetness."
Doc rattled his newspaper, clearing his throat. "Says here the Cubs might actually have a shot at the division this year. Course, they say that every year right before they remember they're the Cubs."
I picked up my fork, cutting into the pancakes. The first bite hit my empty stomach like salvation. Sweet and warm and nothing like the protein bars and coffee that had been my diet for weeks. My phone buzzed on the table, and I almost ignored it. Almost.
Unknown number. Local area code.
I shouldn't have looked. Should have deleted it unopened, blocked the number, thrown the whole phone in the diner's grease trap. But exhaustion made me stupid, or maybe just human.
The photo loaded slowly, pixels filling in like a horrible puzzle. My old apartment door. The one with the faded blue paint and the brass numbers that never hung straight. The butterfly sticker I'd put up during the good times, when I'd thought love could be soft and beautiful and safe.
But it was the hole next to the door that made bile rise in my throat. Fist-sized, edges jagged where the drywall had crumbled. His knuckles had bled for days after that night. He'd been sorry, so sorry, baby girl, you know I didn't mean it, you just make me so crazy sometimes.
No message. Just the photo. Just the reminder that he knew where I used to live, that he remembered too, that some part of him was standing outside that door taking pictures instead of moving on with his life.
My hands shook as I deleted it. The phone clattered against the table, and Doc looked up from his paper.
"Everything alright?"
"Wrong number," I lied, the words automatic.
He studied me for a long moment, taking in whatever my face was doing. Then he folded the sports section with deliberate care.
"You know what the Cubs' real problem is?" He didn't wait for an answer. "They keep trying the same plays that haven't worked in forty years. Same positions, same strategies, like they think this time it'll be different. Definition of insanity, doing the same thing and expecting different results."
I forced myself to pick up the fork again, to take another bite of pancakes that now tasted like sawdust. Doc kept talking, something about pitching rotations and batting averages, his voice a steady rumble that didn't require response.
The teddy bear mug smiled at me with painted eyes. I focused on that instead of the phone. The rainbow sprinkles bled color into the whipped cream, tiny points of brightness dissolving into white.
Just like everything else in my life—all the color bleeding out, leaving nothing but the pale ghost of what used to be.
My apartment building required three key codes and a security badge just to reach the lobby, which was exactly why I'd chosen it despite the rent eating sixty percent of my take-home pay. First code at the outer door—six digits I changed every month. Second at the interior vestibule—four digits that had to be entered within thirty seconds or the system locked down. Security badge at the final door, the magnetic strip worn thin from daily swipes.
Tobias sat behind the front desk, and looked up as I passed. "Long night, Miss Mitchell?" He marked his pag.
"The usual." I forced the kind of smile that said everything's fine, nothing to see here. "You?"
"Can't complain. Though this book's got me jumping at shadows." He held up the cover—something about serial killers and FBI profilers. "Maybe I should switch to romance novels."
"Might be safer," I agreed, already moving toward the stairwell.
