Shit. Did I look that bad? Were my anger and hangover so obvious? I was about to deny it but then thought . . . why? Low wasn’t going to judge me. Low didn’t care about me at all.

“Kind of,” I said.

My assistant didn’t respond, just picked up the dustcloth and went straight to work. I sipped my tea, watching as she headed to Freya’s remaining pieces. She always took care of them first, always carefully, even lovingly. As she wiped the inside of a beautiful, jade-green bowl, I spoke.

“Is Freya making more pottery?”

Low kept her eyes on her work. “We’re too busy with her Instagram. Social media is her first love. She only got back into pottery because she wasn’t allowed to post anything after Max’s trial.”

She was being more forthcoming than usual, so I continued. “Do you still make pottery?”

Low kept dusting. “Freya said I can use the studio, but it’s not the same without her. She doesn’t have that much energy now. She’s only got a month and a half till the baby comes.”

“Two and a half months,” I corrected her.

My employee looked up and met my eyes. As usual, they were unreadable. “Right.”

I drank the last of my tea. “I’m going to run some errands and grab lunch,” I said, shrugging on my raincoat. “Text me if it gets busy.”

“I will. But it won’t.”

• • •

The flat gray sky and cold drizzle fit my outlook perfectly. I huddled into my North Face jacket, the hood restricting my view of the deserted streets and naked sidewalks. I had no errands to run, but I needed to get away from Hawking Mercantile. At times, my supposed dream job felt like a prison, complete with physical and financial shackles. I was irritable, depressed, and hungover, and I needed to get out of my cell. And I needed fries.

When Freya and I ate lunch at the Blue Heron, we always ordered salads or Buddha bowls, but I knew there was a burger on the menu. I’d looked at it, coveted it on occasion, but hadn’t wanted to order it in front of my slim, healthy friend. Today, I had no one to impress. I was going to drown my sorrows in grease.

Shaking the raindrops from my hood, I entered the quiet restaurant. It was 11:40—on the early side for lunch, and the horrendous weather had kept would-be customers at home. The waitress, a fiftyish woman with a rosy face, recognized me.

“Table for two, hon?”

“Just me today,” I said, self-pity clogging my throat. Just me.

“Sit wherever you like,” she said, taking a tray of dishes toward the back. “I’ll be right with you.”