“I thought it was you when I heard your voice,” he says, but the words barely register because his tone is unexpected. There’s no joy there at seeing a long-lost friend. He seems somehow flat, like the old Tom I knew had been pressed out when his shirt was ironed.

“I thought to myself,” he continues, “‘I know that voice. Where have I heard it before?’ And it’s really you, right here in front of me.”

Here I am, standing in front of Tom, a friend I haven’t seen for forty years, shortly after Mary died. And because his voice sounds so vacant, I’m not sure what to do—hug him? Shaking hands feels too formal. Standing here feels like the worst option, but that’s what we do—stand in the narrow diner aisle and stare at each other.

“It’s me,” I say, putting my hands in my pockets. Why is he so emotionless?

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he says, his words more a statement of fact than any kind of accusation or relief.

Is he angry at the sudden way I left Nysa all those years ago? That fits. That seems to make sense, and I consider apologizing. Should I say I’m sorry for how I left things? Should I take the conversation in that direction and see if that’s what he wants? An apology?

That’s when I hear you sliding out of the plastic booth. You stand behind me.

“Tom,” I say again, and I don’t have to pretend that I’m shocked, because I am. I don’t know why I didn’t consider it before, the fact that I might run into people from my childhood. “I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t . . . This is my granddaughter, Pearl. This is John’s daughter.”

You hold out your hand, and he stares at it, turning his head to the side, examining it. He crouches down so that his eyes are level with yours, and he finally reaches for your hand.

“You look exactly like your grandmother,” he states, and a recognizable softness is there this time, something creeping through the flat exterior.

Time has treated Tom well—he seems like he’s in good shape. He dresses like someone who has found a great deal of success. I angle my head so he can’t see the knot that’s growing. It’s suddenly embarrassing, this weakness. I raise my hand and pretend to scratch my scalp, cupping the knot in my palm.

“Join us?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says, his voice still sounding like it’s coming through gauze. “Of course.”

I sit back down and slide over, but he walks over and sits in your side of the booth. You slide all the way to the wall and stare up at him with something like amazement.

“Where do we even begin?” I ask, trying to keep it light but not succeeding. We sit there in the quiet, the warm sunshine radiating in on us, you staring up at him, the waitress bustling around in the back room. There is the never-ending clatter of dishes and silverware, and something sizzles on the grill.