Molly
The night air was warm, carrying the faint hum of crickets from somewhere beyond the parking lot. Molly pushed the back door of the diner open with her shoulder, the metal groaning on its hinges. The door swung shut behind her with a dull thud, muffling the clatter of dishes and the hiss of the grill inside. She adjusted the knot of her apron, looping it once around the strap of her tote bag, the faded fabric still damp from a spilled soda earlier in her shift.
The scent of fryer oil and burnt coffee clung stubbornly to her hair and skin, a reminder of the long hours she’d just worked. Her sneakers scuffed against the cracked pavement as her eyes swept the nearly empty lot.
Jack’s truck sat beneath the amber glow of the streetlamp at the far edge, paint gleaming in the low light.
