“You know what kind of woman she is,” my mother continued. “Do I have to spell it out for you, Alexander?”
My grip on the wheel tightened as I pulled up outside Amara’s café, the neon sign glowing softly in the early evening light. I could see her inside, moving behind the counter.
I exhaled slowly and leaned back against my seat. “And what kind is that?” I asked, daring her to say it.
I stared through the windshield, my fingers gripping the wheel as I watched the café door swing open. Amara stepped out, a trash bag in hand, her laughter light and unguarded as she spoke to the man beside her. A man who was standing too close. A man who was making her smile at something he said.
My jaw tightened.
Then I saw it—the brief brush of their fingers as she handed him the trash bag. It was fle
