Chapter 7: The Vasectomy

Knox texted at four to ask whether I had eaten.

I wrote back, No.

He wrote, Pick the place. Anywhere you want. I'll follow.

I read that three times on my break.

Nobody had ever let me pick the place without a catch.

At seven I walked into a diner two blocks from my work, a chrome-edged place with torn red booths that Corin hated because the coffee was cheap.

Knox was already there, in the back booth, sitting with his jacket folded beside him and his hands flat on the table.

He stood up when I came in.

It was a small thing, and I noticed it more than I wanted to.

"You picked the diner," he said.

"The booth by the window is taken. This is the one I like."

"Then this is the one I like."

A waitress with a pencil behind her ear arrived before I had sat down.

I did not open the menu.

"Turkey club, no cheese, fries, and a big glass of ice water," I said. "And a slice of lemon pie."

"You got it, hon."

Knox handed over his menu.

"Same," he said. "But I'll have the cheese."

When she left he was looking at me.

"What?" I said.

"You didn't hesitate."

"I've been ordering that here since I was seventeen. Corin always said I should try something new."

"He said that," Knox said, "while ordering the same steak every time."

I laughed out loud, the first real laugh in three days, and he looked as surprised as I was.

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