She brushes me off and leaves me at the table. I stare out through the big plate-glass windows to the sidewalk beyond. Downtown Dayton is abustle today. Golden, early September sunshine slants through some slender trees poking up through metal grates in the sidewalk. It’s still warm enough to go without a jacket. Beyond the buildings, out of my sight, is the river that weaves its way through the city. Somewhere close to here is where they say that little boy drowned. I’ve heard that his parents leave flowers there, but I’ve never gone to see them.

Lisa returns to the table with two chocolate croissants on plates. The server follows with our drinks, setting them down and leaving without a word. I take the plate Lisa slides toward me. I break my croissant into pieces. She bites directly into hers with a totally unself-conscious “ooh” of pure pleasure that I envy and admire. Our conversation turns to gossip about our classmates. Lisa has a lot of stories to tell.

“You’ve really kept in touch with a lot of people.” My mug is warm against my palms as I wrap my fingers around it. The air conditioning is too high, giving me chilly tickles.

“I served at a lot of the local hangouts when my kids were little. Their dad and I split up when he went into the service, so my parents would take them for the weekends. I’d work doubles so I could have time off with them during the week. I got to see everyone who came in, you know, the ones who drank too much. The ones who were sleeping around. I always thought I’d move away, but here I still am.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

“You know who never kept in touch with, though?” Lisa winks. “You know.”

I smile despite myself. “C.C.”

“Nobody has,” she says. “Beth was on the reunion committee, and she told me she about fell over when she saw his RSVP come in. Before that, I don’t think anyone had heard a peep from him in years. Anyway, isn’t he still hot as hell? But then, he always was. He said he’s looking to get some step-kids. Think I should send him some pictures of mine?”

“He doesn’t seem the paternal type,” I tell her, and the words almost don’t hurt. “But what do I know?”

“And I’m no sugar mama,” Lisa says with a put-upon sigh. “Not like you, that’s for sure.”

She cackles laughter, brash and bold, and I can’t help but admire her obvious comfort in who she is. She’s authentic. I’m the shallow one, all surface, all shine, reflecting every gaze away from what’s underneath.

“Me?” I laugh and shake my head, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. “No way.”

“Oh, c’mon, Jewelann. You live in that gorgeous, enormous house in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Kettering. You have a rock on your finger big enough to blind a gal, and … yep.” She tilts herself again to take in my entire outfit. “Designer from top to toe. You could totally be Christian’s sugar mama. Except I bet you’re super happy with your hottie husband who buys you anything you want.”