Page 22 of Made for You
When she says this, I realize that no matter how unappetizing this place is, I should probably eat.
I force a smile and slide onto a padded barstool. “What do you recommend?”
“Fish fry’s on special. Or you like pancakes?”
“Pancakes, please. And decaf. Water, too.”
She shouts my order through the small pass-through window into the kitchen.
I lean forward on the counter, tucking my hands into the sleeves of my fleece so I don’t have to touch anything. “Um, can I ask, were you here on Sunday?”
“Here every day.” She’s setting the coffee for me, her back turned.
“Do you remember seeing a dark-haired guy, midthirties, kind of...scruffy? Waiting for someone else? Probably for a long time?”
“Nope.”
Andy already said Josh didn’t show. But what if Josh got the time wrong and they somehow missed each other?
“What about a really handsome guy? Brown hair, athletic build?” If my phone wasn’t charging back in the car, I could show her pictures of both Andy and Josh. “Actually, do you watch The Proposal?”
“Survivor kinda gal.” She plunks down a plate of pancakes, a sticky carafe of syrup, and a ceramic mug, then pours the coffee in. It sloshes over. “That be all?”
“So you didn’t see a handsome guy with—”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I say, deflated. This stop was definitely a waste of time.
As I scarf down the pancakes, my eyes trail up to the TV above the bar. It’s playing live coverage of the Antique Car Convention in Indianapolis. Josh went once, as a kid. It was one of the few happy memories he had with his dad, Phil, a financier and all-around jerk who now lives in Chicago with his twenty-year-old fiancée.
Josh and I talked about trying to go to the convention this year, but Annaleigh gets cranky without her naps, so we pinkie promised each other we’d go next year.
Next year. The year of the new house, the easier life, the fresh start. What if it’s just me next year? Alone?
I stuff a bite of pancake into my mouth and try not to project. It could still be fine. As long as there’s no body, I have to keep assuming Josh is alive.
When the TV reporter pushes their big microphone toward someone, I actually gasp. Camila Reyes is smiling down at me, like a sign from above. She’s looking fabulous in a bright yellow cocktail dress and chunky silver heels, her dark hair softly curled. The volume is down, but a blurb flashes under her image: BMW BRAND AMBASSADOR.
I should text her. Indy is just a couple hours away; she could come down to Eauverte after the convention. I’ve been resisting involving her and Andy in this mess, but that’s shortsighted. I need help.
I wave my credit card at the woman. As she runs it, I try one last time.
“I’m sorry to be obnoxious—but those guys I was asking about? One of them is my husband. He was supposed to meet our friend here Sunday, for breakfast. My friend said he didn’t show. I just... If you saw anything at all—”
“For breakfast?” The woman chuckles and returns my card. “Sunday?”
“Yes.” Hope expands in my chest. “Did you see them?”
She slaps her rag down like this is hilarious. “Honey, we were all worshipping the Lord.”
“Excuse me?”
“Church,” she says, louder, like I’m hard of hearing. “We’re closed Sundays until dinner so we can all go to church.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling foolish. “Thank you.”
I see myself out. Back in the car, my phone is finally charged. Missed calls and texts are popping up like a rash.