“Lila? You okay in there?”

The knock on the bathroom stall snaps me out of my pity party. “Yeah, I’m fine.” My voice wavers, and I know there’s no way in hell my boss will buy the act.

I take a breath, undo the latch, and prepare for the Sad Eyes.

I’ve been getting them from everyone at Hampton’s, ever since the day my bereavement-vacation combo ended. Riveting as it sounds, two weeks of discounting quinoa and pitching kelp chips to customers hasn’t made me miss Dad any less. Today marks the fifth time Rhiannon’s caught me in here, crying my eyes out.

“Honey.” She runs her hand down my arm as her head tilts, Sad Eyes on-point. “You should go home.”

“I’m fine,” I say again, and strangely, it’s kind of true. My crying jags are humiliating, but helpful: each one is like a cleanse, leaving me fragile in the moment, but quietly energized afterwards.

In some ways, Dad’s death is easier to handle than Mom’s was, either because I’m older and familiar with the feeling, or because his didn’t take me by surprise. Some days, getting out of bed or into the shower requires Olympian-level energy—but I still do it. That’s got to mean something.

“The house sold yet?” she asks. Her voice is so packed with sympathy, its echo practically melts down the walls. “I know that’s got to be tough.”

“Yesterday, actually,” I answer, while I wet a paper towel and demolish the last of my makeup. “But it’s weird, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Really?”

I nod. “The buyers were this young couple with a toddler, and the wife is pregnant again.” In the mirror, the scar I got from falling into my parents’ cockeyed metal threshold, face-first, appears from behind the paper towel.

“Circle of life,” she says, smiling.

There are more marks, all over: the one in my foot, when I stepped on a nail in my tree house; the deep freckles on my shoulders, from a blistering sunburn after I fell asleep sunbathing as a teenager. That house left its mark on me in more ways than one, and I left mine, from scribbles in the hallway Mom never could scrub clean, to the growth chart in our kitchen doorway.

In a few weeks, they’ll be painted over and wallpapered. Any proof I once called that place home will disappear, as easily as the boxes of Dad’s stuff.

I’ll remember, though. I still have these marks, and the memories. And knowing someone else will be making their own helps.

I smile back at her in the mirror. “Exactly.”

We head out to the floor together. She puts her arm around my shoulders and tells me a funny story about her latest dating app fiasco.

“So this is the mechanic with the missing pinky, correct?”

“No, honey, that was Brady. He’s long gone. This is Lando.”

I squint at her. “As in, Calrissian?”

“Don’t be mean,” she scolds, but giggles as she swats me. “He’s sweet, but the whole night was a disaster. He just wouldn’t stop sweating. Even the top of his lip had these little droplets. Who wants to kiss that goodnight?”

I cringe, but offer, “Maybe he was nervous.”

“Maybe.” She picks a piece of fig off her apron, then sets to work on some dried yogurt near her name tag. No one is exempt from the parsley-colored uniform, and all the splatters that come with it, here at Hampton’s.

“You’re lucky,” she goes on, “being so young. You’ve got options. Me? I’m just towing the line between having standards, and not dying alone.”

“Fight the good fight,” I manage, and elbow her as she laughs again.

I hop onto a register to thin out the line that’s formed in my absence; the two cashiers I abandoned let out a double sigh, relieved, when they see me wave some of their customers over.

“Offer stands,” she calls. “If you need more time.”

“Thanks, Rhiannon. I’m good, though.” I blush as the cashiers turn and look at me, then each other. People have been walking on eggshells a bit since I’ve come back, and I’m determined to show them it isn’t necessary.

While I price-check a can of asparagus, I think about what Rhiannon said. “You’re lucky. You’ve got options.” Maybe it’s because so much else is going on, pulling my focus away from dating altogether, but my options feel even more limited than hers.

I see Shepherd, now and then. He still rents his room from Tillie, but spends most of his time out of the house, picking up temp jobs around town. Now that I know he’s got a felony, the lack of a traditional job makes more sense.

We barely talk. At most, it’s “hi, how are you” type pleasantries. Still: there’s a connection there, even if we pretend we’re past that. I miss him. I wonder if he misses me.

Sienna waves at me from her station. “Hey, boss,” she calls, “your mom’s here.”

“Huh?” I turn to the doors and instantly feel stupid. Of course she’s talking about Tillie. After two weeks, you’d think I’d be used to it.

She’s beaming, even while wringing her hands. “Hey! You have a minute?”

I check the rest of my line: one elderly man buying eight more cans of asparagus and some truffles, and a woman with highlights clutching a gallon of our house cold-brew. “Three minutes,” I tell Tillie.

It takes me almost seven to fully extricate myself. The woman buying coffee felt the need to argue a discount that definitely did not exist, which I still granted, but which did not stop her complaints until she was out in the parking lot. Tillie is waiting for me near a display of dried apricots, and smiles when I give her an exhausted smile.

“Tough shift?”

“Tough day.”

She nods, understanding what I mean—that it’s a tough day, grief-wise—without any explanation. I’ve noticed that happening a lot, with her: one of us will say something objectively vague, yet the other will grasp it immediately. It makes me miss my mom even more, that bizarre connection we shared, but also reminds me how lucky I’ve been to find Tillie. Most people in my shoes don’t get as far in their searches as I did. Even fewer find something like this at the other end.

“Well,” she says slowly, “I have some news that might cheer you up. Nick got arrested today.”

“Whoa.” I have to admit, this does cheer me up. Ever since we got back, Tillie’s been paranoid, which is putting it lightly: she had Shepherd install double deadbolts and chain locks on all her doors, and motion-activated floodlights on every corner of the house. A simple knock at the door sends her into a compulsive flurry, checking the locks and gripping her phone, ready to dial. When I used the bathroom downstairs one day, I noticed a baseball bat wedged behind the sink, ready for action.

Not that I think her paranoia isn’t justified. Neither of us knew what Nick would do when he realized she was gone; I checked my rearview for approaching headlights the entire drive from Texas, holding my breath until they’d passed. I just didn’t like how he was still controlling her. Her entire life was orchestrated around fear, now. I’ve mentioned therapy more than once, ignored each time.

Now, though, she flits from foot to foot, seemingly weightless as she outlines the details for me. Her eyes film over during some parts, like how, after a lengthy chase on foot through the woods, Nick was cornered, tackled, and sustained a broken arm.

I resist my impulse to say, “Good, he deserves worse.” I know that kind of thing isn’t what she needs, right now: she’s angry, and she hates him, but there’s something still there. Not love, but its memory. I’d probably feel it if anything happened to Donnie, as much as I hate admitting that to myself.

“Thank you,” she whispers, when the story’s over. “I don’t want to think about what might’ve happened if…if you hadn’t….”

I sense more tears coming, so I smile and pull her in for a hug. “No problem. I’m just glad that jerk’s where he belongs. And I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me, too.” She steps back and fans her eyes. “What time do you get done here? I want to take you and Shepherd to dinner, to celebrate.” She picks up a package of flax seed, makes a face, and puts it back on the shelf. “That place on Emory Street is supposed to be good.”

Releasing my manager’s key with a snap against my wrist, I force a smile. “I’m not sure Shepherd would be interested in going to dinner with us. At least, not me. But you and I could go celebrate.”

“I’ve already invited him.” She tilts her head, trying to appeal to my sympathy. “You know he doesn’t have other friends.”

Except, I think, I’m not his friend. We’re nothing, now. Just strangers who took a trip and fooled around.

I feel sorry for him, though. I don’t have friends, either—not real, organic ones. All I’ve ever had are coworkers and boyfriends’ friends, briefly implemented as my own. One of the girls I met through Donnie, probably the closest thing I’ve ever had to a best friend, knew all along he was cheating on me, and never said a word.

I feel bad for Tillie, too. It was hard for me to believe no one but Shepherd and some bill collectors noticed her absence for six months, but after a few days with her, I realized why: as friendly and charitable as she is, she lives a pretty solitary life. Not like she wants to be alone, but that, like me, she just ended up that way and got used to it. It was probably why she offered to help Shepherd, a fellow loner, when he got kicked out.

These last couple weeks have run her ragged, worrying that every knock of the wind against the house, every phone call or ring of the doorbell could be Nick, out for revenge. Now he’s behind bars, and she deserves to have fun. It just happens to be my own rotten luck that the only two people on this planet she’d want to celebrate with are me, and Shepherd.

“Fine,” I relent, catching a bag of apricots as she hugs me and knocks my elbow into the display.

“Thank you! I promise, it’ll be fun.”

“If you say so.” I put the bag back and force another smile as she leaves, waving all the way out to the parking lot.