I had mistaken her ability to carry everything for proof that nothing weighed her down.
“Maybe it’s time you asked yourself,” I said.
She looked at me.
“What I want?”
“Yeah.”
“And if I don’t know anymore?”
“Then you start finding out.”
She studied my face, as if she were trying to decide whether I actually believed what I was saying.
Then she leaned back against the seat.
“Take me somewhere with terrible coffee.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“I need something normal. Something completely unimportant. Somewhere nobody knows me as Michael Mercer’s wife.” I started the engine.
“I know a place.”
Twenty-five minutes later, we were sitting in a roadside diner with red vinyl booths, a flickering neon sign, and a waitress who looked as though she had heard every heartbreak in the county.
Karen ordered coffee.
I ordered coffee and apple pie.
She stared at my plate.
“You told me the coffee was terrible.”
“It is.”
“And yet you ordered it.”
