I had experience.
Good numbers.
Good client relationships.
But I was thirty-eight.
Divorced.
Supporting two daughters.
Car payment.
Mortgage.
Insurance.
The luxury of “finding myself” had expired years ago.
I needed a paycheck.
Fast.
I began updating my résumé from the diner booth.
Thirty minutes passed.
Then my phone rang.
The agency number.
I stared at it.
Ignored it.
It rang again.
Ignored it.
Then a text appeared.
CHRIS, PLEASE ANSWER.
It was Nina from reception.
I called.
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“Why?”
“You need to come back.”
“No.”
“I’m serious.”
“So was Gavin.”
“Chris, listen to me.”
Her voice was low.
Something was wrong.
“What happened?”
“There’s a woman here.”
“What woman?”
“She says you helped her this morning.”
I sat straighter.
The noise of the diner seemed to fade.
“She’s okay?”
“Yes.”
A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped.
“Good.”
“But she keeps asking for you.”
