The diner was a time capsule—red vinyl booths, chrome trim fogged with age, the air thick with the smell of grease, coffee, and fried onions. It was the antithesis of the gala, of the sterile penthouse, of the curated hell of my former home. It was gloriously, loudly real.
We slid into a booth by the window. Cameron didn’t hand me a menu. “Two patty melts, extra pickles. Fries. Two chocolate milkshakes.” He glanced at me. “Unless you’re on a post-gala cleanse.”
“A patty melt sounds like salvation,” I said, my voice still hoarse from crying.
The waitress, a woman with a kind, tired face and a name tag that read ‘Florence’, gave me a long look, taking in my dusty designer pants and puffy eyes. She didn’t ask. She just poured two mugs of coffee, black and strong enough to stand a spoon in.
