And then he came out of the back room, humming along to the music. Her dad.

She set down her wallet on a nearby table, not even bothering to close it.

His hair, almost the same shade as hers, was cut shorter than she’d ever seen it, and she’d never seen his face so tan. She would have assumed his skin didn’t really get tan, like hers didn’t. And she didn’t ever remember him humming. He locked eyes with the redhead, and there was something about the way they looked at each other—as if they were having a whole conversation with their eyes. Annabelle was positive: She was the “friend” he’d moved with. And she wasn’t just a friend.

He was balancing a tray of pastries on one arm, and he went out of his way to pass by the kid’s table and ruffle his hair the way Mitch ruffled Annabelle’s.

Her heart ached, suddenly, for Mitch’s hair-ruffling and blown kisses and strategizing sessions. And for Mom’s clinking bracelets and jasmine perfume and extra-tight hugs. Even for her annoying habit of getting everything monogrammed.

She didn’t know this man who was humming and winking and carrying pastries. Not really—not anymore.

He hadn’t spotted her yet. She could leave.

“Did you decide, hon?” the redhead asked.

Then there was a clang as Dad set the tray of pastries on top of the glass display case. The tray tipped forward, and the redhead reached out to steady it. A cinnamon roll fell to the ground.

“Annie,” Dad said.

Annabelle didn’t like it, the way the old nickname sounded out loud.

“Annie” was a little girl who lived in New Jersey and barely knew Mitch and had no idea she needed tutoring and learning plans and accommodations. Or that she’d break all the pool’s under-fourteen butterfly records, either.

“What—what are you doing here?” he sputtered.

“You’re Annabelle,” the woman said. “My God.”

“Who’s Annabelle?” asked the kid with the book.

The redhead gave Dad a little shove, and he finally came around to where Annabelle was standing. As he hugged her, she had a flash of being a little kid just barely able to grab onto his middle. Now her chin fit over his shoulder and his stubble scratched her cheek.

“Look at you,” he said. “Wow.”

Annabelle had never understood that expression. It sounded like an instruction, but she couldn’t look at herself right at that moment, even if she wanted to. Instead, she looked over Dad’s shoulder at the menu written on a chalkboard on the wall.

There were two salads, a bunch of drinks, and a few sandwiches.

GREG’S GRILLED CHEESE! was written in the same cheerful handwriting from the Book Nook sign. NEW! PEACH, BRIE, AND BACON.

Not the kind with strawberries and goat cheese. The sandwich he’d made for Annabelle wasn’t even on there anymore. And she hated brie. The crusty white stuff on the outside grossed her out.

“Who’s Annabelle?” the kid with the giant book asked again.