As she answers with alarm written across her face, she asks me, “What’s the matter?” “It’s a long story,” I tell her, running my hand up the back of my neck. “Come in,” she says, worried, stepping aside for me. “Do you want coffee?” she asks, hugging me as she closes the door behind us. “Please.” I follow her to the kitchen, where I lean on the island watching her pour us each a cup. “Your cream is in the fridge, dear. Could you grab it please?” I hand it to her and she says, “Is it that girl, Abby, we talked about?” “Yeah.” “What happened?” I take the cup of coffee from her, and try to think where to start. “Come on, you didn’t come here at 5:40 in the morning to sit in silence.” “I saw her last night.” “How did that go?” “I thought it went well. We talked a little bit and she stayed the night. But when I woke up, I found this.” I hand her the note that Abby wrote to me and watch her expression change as she reads it. She’s feeling my pain just as much as I am.
