He exhales and looks away. “My mom, uh...” He turns back to me. “My mom lives in Mexico.” He pauses to take a sip of his coffee. “She was detained, and then deported a few years ago. So, uh, no. She doesn’t give me input on breakfast. I mean, I call her as much as I can, and we talk about lots of things. But doughnuts aren’t usually one of them.” He laughs in an uncomfortable sort of way.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry,” I say. The words seem to fall flat as soon as they’re out of my mouth, hitting the table between us with a hollow thud.

What are my stupid words of sympathy in the face of something so unbearable?

But he smiles gratefully, like I’ve actually said something helpful.

I feel an overwhelming need to fill the silence. “That was rude of me, I shouldn’t have asked, I—”

“Nah.” He waves his hand, dismissing my second apology. Great, now he’s comforting me. What kind of friend am I? “How could you have known? I usually just say something vague or avoid the subject. But... I don’t know.” He fiddles with the plastic lid of his coffee. “Something made me want to be honest with you.”

I nod, and we’re quiet for a moment, sipping our coffee and watching people walk in and out of the door, listening to the light sound of the bell ringing.

“Tell me about her.” I turn back to Robbie. “What does she like to do?”

He smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes. “She really likes music. She loves dancing,” he says. “She would lead me around the kitchen, making me dance with her while she cooked.” He blushes. “I used to love that, and then I thought I was too old, even though I wasn’t.”

I nod and take a bite of my doughnut.

“And at night, she would listen to ballads and sometimes show tunes. She liked songs that told stories,” he says. “Likes,” he corrects himself.

“She sends me videos now,” he says. “Of herself singing.” He pulls out his phone and searches for one. “It’s ridiculous,” he says, but his smile betrays his real feelings.

Chapter Thirteen

Roberto

Every few seconds, I check the clock, as if I’m half-afraid it will have jumped forward a few hours and we’ll have royally messed up. I’m standing over Sara’s shoulder as she types, hunched over the keyboard. I’m supposed to be helping her fix the bug, but I’m probably just making her more nervous. My eyes dart to the chair across the table, but I can’t bring myself to step away from the screen and do nothing. Even if I’m not much help right now.