It took some convincing, but I managed to get Jack to pull over at a local diner somewhere between New York and Vermont. He had been adamant about taking us to a fancy restaurant, but it wasn’t necessary. This was a roadside lunch—a meal meant to be greasy, cheap, and perhaps a little questionable, not something elegant.
The diner was called Luckies—yes, spelled exactly like that. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, Jack turned to me, c*****g an incredulous brow. His expression screamed skepticism, as if I’d just asked him to dumpster dive for our lunch.
I couldn’t help but burst into laughter, shaking my head as I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out of the car. The place was exactly what I had expected: a small, slightly dingy building with peeling paint and a neon sign that fl
