Almost a week later, Miguel and I stand in the middle of the new, improved Milton’s. I should be ecstatic about how everything turned out — the dining room has a vibrant feel to it with the yellow paint and wrought-iron light fixtures with exposed bulbs, and the new blue-and-white vinyl booths give the place a gleam that it never had before. There’re still horns and antlers worked into the design scheme — subtly this time — and the jukebox is still flashing its neon in the corner, but this place is real shiny now.

I wish I were feeling it more, but I’m not. Gwen’s been MIA this whole week.

Miguel nudges up the brim of his baseball cap and nods in satisfaction. He looks at me as if expecting to find me doing the same, but then he notices how remote I am. “This is not a happy look, Bossman. I, for one, think your girl is going to love it.”

My girl. I frown, and Miguel notices this, too.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. “I’m not sure.”

He widens his eyes. In the past, I’ve always been more than sure when it comes to women, but I’ve been keeping my doubts to myself these past several days. And I should have fucking doubts. Pride has kept me from telling Miguel that I have no idea what’s going on with Gwen, but he’s the only one who’s going to understand this shit, so I finally drop my act. “The morning after she told me about her dad, things were great. We went about our day like usual. Then I called her that evening to see if we could get together. I still needed to have my talk with her.”

“And you were going to get it done then, am I right?”

“Come hell or high water, I knew I couldn’t put it off anymore.” I shrug. “But I got a vibe on that call with Gwen. Some chilliness. I wrote it off to the fact that she was embarrassed because I now knew about her father, so I gave her some space that night.”

“Good call. Space is good.”

“I thought so, too, because the next day, after I called again, asking if she was okay, she said nothing was wrong. She just wasn’t feeling well and had to fight off that crud that’s going around. I offered to take care of her and she said no, she didn’t want me to catch whatever she has. So I went back to work, taking her at her word, checking in every once in a while. She wasn’t returning my texts and messages, but I thought, hell, she’s sick, don’t bother her, don’t be desperate.”

“Shit.” Miguel is looking at me as if I’ve just found my way into an exclusive club that he’s been waiting years for me to join, and he’s partway happy that I’ve finally gotten past the door and partway bummed out that I might be on my way out too soon. Even he can see some writing on the wall with Gwen that I’ve been telling myself isn’t really there. But then the happiness wins out in his gaze. “You’re into this girl. Really into her.”

I nod. I can’t stop thinking about her, can’t stop wanting to be near her. Something in my chest even hurts like fuck and it won’t go away.

It hurts even more as I admit, “She knew we’d be wrapping this job up today, and I’ve been finding evidence that she’s been in this diner after hours, getting things together for the reopening. So I’m pretty sure she’s not as sick as she says.”

“A week. That’s a long time to put you off.” Yup, my buddy not only sees the writing on the wall — he’s stopping to read every mortifying word of it. “Hell, Quinn, maybe she just needs to … I don’t know, concentrate on work, getting this place open, all that stuff?”

Uh-huh. Not all that long ago, Gwen told me she uses work to hide away from emotions, and I have to wonder if she’s doing it again. But why did she turn from hot to cold so fast? Something is definitely off.

Miguel gives me a light slap on the back. Then, after a strained pause, he says, “Okay, big man. Um, see you over at Climax in a few?”

“Yeah, see ya.”

He slaps me again, then leaves me alone to brood. After I finally pull myself out of my funk and start to clean the last of the debris from around the room, I once again resist the temptation to text Gwen, call her, ask her what the hell is up.

Turns out I don’t have to do anything, because the next time I look out the long diner windows to the parking lot, there’s her beater truck pulling up. Her mom and Grace get out of the cab first and practically run to the diner. Gwen follows them, walking slowly. When she sees me through the window, she lifts her hand in a polite wave. She’s back to wearing old jeans and a henley, and my stomach tangles up.

Audie and Grace come through the door. “Hey, Quinn!” they blast.

I nod in greeting to them. While they start to check everything out, oooing and ahhing, Gwen enters. My pulse leaps.

“Morning, Quinn,” she says with a civil smile. “You’re here.”

It’s like she wishes I were anywhere else — out of town, out of sight, out of her hair.

What the serious fuck? “I’m off to Climax in a sec.”

“Oh. Okay.”

As we stand in front of each other like amoebas, Audie and Grace are high-fiving over the booths. Grace runs over to put on the jukebox, and the Pistol Annies come out of it full blast, shaking the walls. Grace grabs her mom and starts swinging with her, and they’re laughing up a storm. Gwen wanders away and starts inspecting every detail around her. Even though I see her smiling at the work I’ve done, I hang back. A sharp pain is digging through me, and as Gwen wanders through the swinging door and into the kitchen, Grace and Audie are still dancing. I follow Gwen.

She’s at the new griddle, running her hand over it, and as I get close to her … God, I smell her cherry shampoo and fist my hands at my sides. I’ve missed her so much that it aches.

“How’ve you been doing?” I have to say it loudly to overcome the music, but still … I can hear how gritty my voice is with the want of her, and I know she has to hear it.

When she finally looks at me, it sets me on my heels. There’s a flash of anguish in her gaze, but I barely have time to process it before she looks away, just like she used to do before we got together.

Something is definitely going on. Did she hear the news about me? Then why isn’t word of my past all around town if someone is spreading stories?

I can see Gwen getting herself together, straightening her back as she forces a smile at me. “Once again, thank you so much for everything you’ve done, Quinn. This is amazing work.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that I was merely her contractor. Now I’m not just confused, I’m getting irritated, because Gwen and I moved beyond this shit. She should be able to talk to me.

I walk toward her, and when she backs away, it’s like I’ve been hit with a steel beam in the head. Awful vibrations shudder through me as I watch her go to the other side of the griddle, keeping it between us.

“Gwen?” is all I can say.

Her jaw is tight, and she’s got her arms barricaded over her chest. She finally meets my gaze, and where we used to melt into each other before, it’s like a metal wall is there now. “Quinn, I really do appreciate what you’ve done, but I’ve been thinking …” Right before my eyes, the frost fully takes her over. “This isn’t going to work out between us.”

She couldn’t have stunned me more if she’d broken off one of her chilled fingers and stabbed me in the chest with it. I reel for a moment before something burned and wronged twists inside of me. Surely I haven’t misjudged yet another woman. There’s no way Gwen is hard and cold enough to have suckered me into doing this contracting gig just because I felt for her and, now that I’m done, she’s dropping me.

Or maybe she really did hear all those stories I’ve been meaning to tell her about my past …

“Why’re you acting like this, Gwen?”

She shakes her head, and there’s hurt right behind it.

“Just fucking talk to me,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She closes up so tight that her mouth presses into a thin line.

“Gwen.” I start walking around the griddle, and she tenses up even more. “Tell me what’s happening.”

She takes a step back from me with her hands up, and I halt in my tracks.

“I know about you, okay?” she yells. “I know because Mattie Hollister told me!”

All the air escapes from my lungs. My brain hasn’t caught up yet, even though her words are echoing around me. There’s this thing in my chest that’s slowly stopping its beating rhythm, fading into shocked silence.

She shakes her head again. “You’re a liar for hiding your past from me.”

“I …” Wanted to tell you.

“No. There’s no sweet talking this, you son of a bitch.” Her gaze is wrecked. “Because do you know who else used to sweet talk his way out of things?”

Don’t say it.

“My dad.” She swallows heavily, and her voice goes thick. “The only reason my mom kept him around is because he knew what to say after he ended up in jail or hit people who weren’t as strong as he was. Sound familiar?”

I want to explain, want to tell her that jail is in my past and that I would never hit a woman, but she’s already backing away again.

“I am never going to be with a man like my father!”

I only want her to listen, because if she does, maybe she won’t be so blinded by what her father did that she sees me through that filter. When she spins away from me to take off, I reach out to hold her arm. She jerks away from me, her eyes wide and horrified and filled with screaming memories that I can never erase about her dad and how he probably used to grab her before hitting her. I lift my hands, stunned that she would see this in me after the start we had together, after she trusted me and I thought that I might even deserve it.

She runs out of the kitchen and into the blast of happy music from the dining room, and I let her go, utterly hollowed out.

Just as destroyed as she seems to be.