On my next birthday, I arrived before the diner opened.
Eric was already sitting in Nathan’s booth.
Two slices of apple pie rested on the table.
“I suppose he finally got the table for two he always wanted,” Eric said.
I looked at the empty seat across from him.
Nathan had manipulated me.
He had denied me the opportunity to confront him.
Missing me for years did not undo the first choice he made.
But the six weeks we spent together had also been real.
Love did not erase anger.
Anger did not make the love false.
I pulled a third chair toward the table.
“No,” I said. “He does not get to decide who belongs here.”
Eric studied the chair.
Then he moved over and sat beside me instead of across from me.
Before the doors opened, he placed Nathan’s unopened letter on the table.
“I still haven’t read it,” he admitted.
“Why?”
“Because I already know what he will ask me to forgive.”
“You do not have to read it today.”
For once, neither of us allowed Nathan to control the timing.
We sat quietly until Rosa switched on the diner’s lights.
Our reflections appeared in the front window.
Three chairs stood side by side.
Families from the hospice began arriving for breakfast.
Nathan’s untouched slice of pie remained in the center of the table.
Rosa looked at the three chairs.
Then she disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying one additional fork.
