She hesitated.
“Could we…”
Ethan knew the question before she finished.
Every instinct said no.
Go home.
Protect the life he had.
Do not reopen what had finally scarred over.
Then Lily asked:
“Do they have pancakes?”
Ethan looked down.
“This is adult business.”
“That means yes?”
Sophia bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
Ethan sighed.
“Fine.”
Twenty minutes later, the three of them sat inside a small roadside diner.
Rain streamed down the windows.
Lily had pancakes.
Sophia had coffee.
Ethan had nothing because his stomach was too tight.
Sophia sat across from him in a borrowed sweatshirt from the diner’s lost-and-found box because her expensive blazer was soaked.
Somehow the oversized gray sweatshirt made the whole situation stranger.
She looked almost like the young woman he had known.
Lily dipped bacon into maple syrup.
Sophia watched in horror.
“You approve of that?”
Lily nodded.
“It improves it.”
“That is scientifically questionable.”
“You’re not a scientist.”
Sophia looked toward Ethan.
“She does this often?”
“Constantly.”
For a little while, they talked around the past.
Lily’s school.
Sophia’s company.
Ethan’s garage.
Then Sophia asked:
“You opened it.”
Ethan knew.
“The garage?”
“Yes.”
“You always said you would.”
“Eventually.”
“What’s it called?”
“Cole Automotive.”
Sophia smiled.
“Creative.”
“I fix engines.”
“I don’t name perfume.”
She laughed.
Then her expression changed.
“Are you happy?”
Ethan looked at Lily.
“Yes.”
Sophia understood the answer contained layers.
“And your wife?”
Lily stopped eating.
Ethan noticed.
Sophia noticed too.
“I’m sorry.”
Ethan nodded slowly.
“Her name was Hannah.”
Lily smiled faintly.
“Mom made better pancakes.”
Ethan looked offended.
“She burned pancakes.”
“That doesn’t mean yours are better.”
Sophia lowered her eyes, hiding emotion.
Ethan continued.
“Hannah died three years ago.”
Sophia already knew, somehow.
But hearing him say it was different.
“What happened?”
“Cancer.”
Her hand rose toward her mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
There was no useful answer.
Lily kept eating quietly.
Ethan had learned children were sometimes better with grief than adults.
They did not demand elegant meaning.
Someone was there.
Then they were gone.
Both could be true without explanation.
Sophia looked toward Lily.
“How old were you?”
“Five.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lily nodded.
“Thank you.”
Then returned to pancakes.
Sophia’s eyes filled.
Ethan saw.
He also saw the way she tried hiding it.
Something inside him softened reluctantly.
“She was good,” Ethan said.
Sophia looked up.
“Hannah.”
“She was good.”
“She deserved longer.”