I stare out the smudged window at the town before me. Luna is dusting in the window of her antique shop, and Branson’s barber pole is spinning already. Small town life. Everything opens early but the town shuts down by six. Except for Millie’s and the Mexican restaurant, Las Casas. They stay open for the dinner crowd.

A waitress wearing a standard pink uniform cracks her gum beside my booth. “What’ll it be, sweetie?” Then she gets an eyeful. “Oh! Hello there, Carly.”

My cheeks warm, but I’m determined not to feel embarrassed. This is just a diner. A run-of-the-mill diner in a run-of-the-mill small town. Sure, it took me more than two days to follow through on the determination I had with Dr. Lake to get here. But I’m here now.

“Hi, Emma,” I say. “Is Millie here?”

“She’s off today.” Emma gives me that eye-softening look full of pity. “How have you been?”

“Just fine, thanks.” I don’t mean to be short with her, but I’m here for a reason. To check this visit off my damned list. “I’ll have the grilled cheese with bacon, please. And black coffee.”

“Coming right up.” Emma whisks away, tears the sheet off her pad, and hangs it on the round thing where the cook will grab it.

She means well.

They all mean well.

But I’m so over it. I think it was my parents who were so dead set against me getting a job that gave me the first hard push. Then Chance punching Austin for making out with poor Carly. Then it was Austin himself—not in a bad way, but a good one—that has me ready to move on completely. To leave the shackles truly in the past.

My nerves have settled a little. This isn’t the booth I sat in that day. I tried. I really did when I came in the door. But I couldn’t, and Dr. Lake didn’t make it a requirement.

Emma drops off a cup of steaming coffee, and I take a cautious sip. It tastes like brown water, but Millie’s coffee always has. I don’t pull out my phone, only look out the window as I focus on my breathing, on seeing the town through the window. A few minutes later, Emma returns with my sandwich and a side of hash browns I didn’t ask for. Except they’re not hash browns. They’re tater tots with seasoned salt. But Millie has always called them hash browns.

And why am I ruminating on hash browns? Who the hell cares? I’m not going to eat them anyway. I’m not even slightly hungry, but eating isn’t what this visit is about.

I place the paper napkin across my lap and take another sip of the flavorless coffee.

And though I try not to…I remember.

Five years ago, during spring break of my first year of veterinary school, I was eating here at the diner with my friend Ashley and I excused myself to go to the bathroom. The one off the back hallway.