Rachel’s mouth tightened, not with jealousy, but with an exhausted kind of compassion. “She deserves better than being left in a park with no explanation.”
“She does.”
“So did we,” Rachel said.
I had no answer.
The café on Spruce was warm and narrow, with fogged windows and mismatched chairs. The owner greeted Rachel by name and brought crayons before she asked.
He glanced at me only briefly, but there was recognition in his look—not of who I was, but of what I might become in Rachel’s life, and therefore in the children’s.
We settled at a table near the back. Rachel ordered grilled cheese cut into triangles, apple slices, milk with lids, and coffee she did not seem likely to drink. I texted Noelle with trembling fingers.
I’m with Rachel. I’ll explain everything tonight. I’m sorry. None of this is what it looks like, but it is serious.
