trying very hard not to believe in miracles.
Charlotte.
“Your order, sir,” she said.
Sir. Not Tyler. Not even a hesitation that suggested his face might be familiar to her. Nothing.
He took the bag but didn’t move. The rain kept working at the porch overhang. She had started to turn back toward the steps.
He had changed. He understood that. At seventeen he had been the grief-softened, limping kid that the crueler boys in the hallway had made into a recurring bit. Thirty-seven looked different on him — steadier, leaner, worn smooth by enough years of deliberate effort that even people who had known him in high school regularly needed a second look. Charlotte had not known him that well to begin with. She had one prom night with a boy who no longer existed in the same form.
“Do you want some water?” he managed. “You look
