Chapter 11

She is at the counter taking care of some bookkeeping. It’s early enough in the afternoon that there are no customers waiting. She peers out at me, looking as enticing as ever, and I get to see her brown eyes wavering for just a moment before I drop my gaze. I stare at the counter as I approach. I can’t look at her. It’s taking all my energy just to shuffle my feet forward.

“Angel,” she says.

With my finger, I trace out a scratch in the laminate counter top, a deep and ugly scar that mars the otherwise smooth surface. I don’t say anything. My throat is too tight and dry.

“Angel, I’m so sorry—”

“Can I still work here?” I manage to croak out. “I mean… You don’t have to pay me. For tacos? I really miss your tacos.”

I feel the gentle press of her finger under my chin, lifting my gaze to hers. Her eyes are moist in the corners, and I want to dab them dry. My stomach knots. I feel like this is my fault.