Chapter 10: The Waitress

June second sat on my ceiling all weekend.

Dean had walked me to my car after the scan without a word, and I had said only, "Don't," and he had nodded.

He did not call, and he did not say Wyatt's name, and that was worse than if he had.

So on Monday I went to the one person who had put that name on a different baby.

The Rolling Mile truck stop opened at five, and by eight the counter was full.

I sat at the far end, on the stool nearest the register, and ordered coffee with my coat on.

Delilah came around the corner of the grill with a pot in one hand and her order pad in the other.

She stopped when she saw me.

The pot shook, and a little coffee slopped on the counter.

"Diana."

"Black, please."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I'm a customer."

"You're not drinking it," she said, looking at my hands. "You're not drinking anything. You've been sick in the mornings, haven't you?"

I went still.

She had the same look she'd had when we were girls, when she knew a secret and was proud of knowing it.

"I'm having a cup of coffee," I said. "Pour it."

She poured it with her mouth tight.

Beside me, a trucker in a faded cap had put down his fork to watch.

Down the line, a cook leaned out of the kitchen window.

I turned on my stool so that I faced the whole room.

"I want to ask you something," I said to Delilah. "And I'd like you to answer out loud."

"Not here."

"You said it at the party. You said it in front of thirty people."

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