“Wasn’t planning to,” I say. “What do you need me to do?”

“Hold the front of the house, please. I have things in the oven,” she says.

“On it,” I say, trying to remember everything I learned from her yesterday.

“By the way, this is for you,” I say, and give her the food container. “From Susan.”

“Freshly baked biscuits? Some things never change,” she says with a strange smile and takes the box in the back.

Thirty-Two

I meet a few more of the regulars. Some come in for breakfast; some are here just for lunch. Celine knows each and every one of their names, their families, what they do. I’m at the ‘let’s make an effort and remember their first name’ level, so I have a way to go.

I’ve gotten to know Anna; she’s a painter. Her arms are covered in random colors, her clothes as well. This morning she came in with a blue streak on her forehead. Celine told her about it, but Anna didn’t seem to mind. She’s about my age and wears her long black hair in two braids and both yesterday and today she came in overalls. Celine told me she has a small gallery on Ocean Avenue. I might stop by one day. Watching her, I wish I could write again; she’d be the type of character I’d enjoy giving a happily ever after to.

For dinner, it’s just as crowded as yesterday, and Celine tells me starting tomorrow, it’ll get progressively busier by the day.

“Don’t even get me started on the Fourth of July,” she says. “You’ll see. It’s madness.”

I don’t want to contradict her or remind her it’s improbable that I’ll be working here in July. I’d rather not think about it and take one day at a time, which is a new concept for me.

We’re almost done with dinner and as I’m cleaning up a table, David calls again. It’s the fifth time today. I don’t want to do this. I should change my number or block him.

I’m a bit cranky because I feel like he’s pulling me back, just by insisting, and there’s nothing to pull me back to. I don’t understand why he doesn’t just move on. Celine must notice something is off, because she asks if I’m OK.

“I’m fine, sorry, it has nothing to do with you or the job. It’s complicated.”

“If you want to talk about it,” she says, “know that I’m good with complicated.”

Maybe I will. One day. Just not today.

We walk back together. Thanks to her jokes and generally upbeat disposition, my mood changes almost immediately. I’m worried a bit though. It’s been a full day, she hasn’t brought up her brother at all and because it’s been so busy at the café, we didn’t have time to chat. I have to ask her. I have to know.

“Let me get your room ready,” she says the moment we get to the house and disappears from the living room before I have the opportunity to respond.