Molly’s feet ached as she walked the few blocks home, the sticky film of diner grease still clinging to her skin despite scrubbing her arms in the employee sink before clocking out.
She’d made decent money in tips—packs of drunk college guys had rolled in after a football game, ordering mountains of bacon cheeseburgers and baskets of fried appetizers. They flirted shamelessly, laughed too loud, and ran up astronomical tabs. But they tipped far better while drunk, so she smiled, took their orders, and pretended she wasn’t already exhausted.
Maybe, for once, the universe was cutting her a break.
She planned to give Anna another hundred tonight. Try to catch up. It wouldn’t erase what she owed, but it was something—a gesture of good faith.
But the envelope from Jack still sat on her count
