Page 29 of What We Bury

He’s sitting there, watching the diner.

Watchingme.

“Whoa—hey! That’s good!”

I jerk too late. Coffee floods the saucer and splashes over his fingers before dripping onto the counter in a spreading brown pool.

“Shit, I’m so sorry.” I right the pot and grab a cloth, mopping frantically at the mess. “I’m so sorry, I just—I got distracted, I?—”

“It’s fine, really.” The customer laughs, grabbing napkins from the dispenser to help. “Happens to the best of us. No harm done.”

I look up. Out the window, back to the bench.

It’s empty.

He’s gone.Did I imagine him?

“You okay?”

The guy at the counter is looking at me with concern, napkins wadded in his hand, head tilted slightly. Up close, his eyes are a warm hazel, and there’s an earnestness in his expression that makes my chest ache for reasons I can’t name.

“Yeah.” I force the word out, force the smile back on my lips. “Yeah, sorry. Long day. Long . . . life, actually.”

“I get that.” He tosses the wet napkins in the bus bin propped behind the counter. “I just moved here, so everything’s been kind of a blur. New town, new apartment, new coffee spots to memorize.” He gestures at the diner. “This one seems promising.”

“It’s not bad.” I pour him a fresh cup, carefully this time, eyes on the mug and not the window. “The pie is great. Frank—one of our regulars—has been coming here for thirty years for his daily slice.”

“Thirty years? That’s a hell of an endorsement.” He wraps his hands around the mug and takes a sip. “I’m Jamie, by the way.”

“Sage.”

“Nice to meet you, Sage.” He says it like he means it. “And hey—whatever’s going on with your day—life? It’ll get better. It always does.”

God, how I want to believe him. I want to believe anything that would make the world less dangerous, less weird, less fucked. For a pathetic, traitorous moment, I imagine letting those guys in masks clean up after me, protect me, turn bad things into a deleted file. A ghost in the system. Just . . . gone.

But I know better. There’s no such thing as gone, not after a night like that. I lean against the counter and force my hands to unclench.

“Thanks. I hope so.”

He smiles again and goes back to his coffee. I move down the counter checking on other customers, my eyes straying to the window, searching for that flash of gold, the hard jaw, the eyes that saw every inch of me in the dark. That didn’t look away from the mess I’d made.

When my break hits, Rosa waves me off. “Go, I’ve got your tables.” I step out back and light a cigarette I bummed from the cook. I don’t smoke. It burns my tongue and the back of my throat. I wrap an arm around my middle and try not to cry. Crying is weakness and I’m really, really done being the weakest link.

I flick the cigarette butt into the alley bin, watching it arc and die in a hiss of sparks. Then I see him—he’s just a shape at first, tall and still against the graffiti-scarred dumpster, arms folded.

My throat closes. I know that silhouette. I’d know it blindfolded, underwater, in a burning room.

I step off the back stoop, heart already in my mouth. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just tilts his head, the shadow slipping off his face enough to show the cut of his jaw, the flat line of his mouth. It’s the giant guy from last night. The one whose knife I stole.

Mr. K.

“You’re stalking me now, too?”

He steps closer, just enough that the light hits his face. Tanned skin. A deep crease between his eyebrows. A nose that’s taken at least one punch. He’s not classically handsome, but there’s something about the way his presence fills the alley that makes the air feel smaller.

I cross my arms, matching his stance, and angle my chin up. “Do you want something? Or is intimidating girls in alleys your daytime hobby?”