Gracie takes us over in her car, which of course is a bright yellow Mustang convertible. I can admit I'm a little squirrelly when it comes to the safety of vehicles, so I let Riley take the passenger seat while I sit in the back, much to Gracie's amusement. Her driving doesn't fit the car, though, and whether it's because she's aware of how nervous I am or because she just likes to upset expectations in her shiny sports car, I don't know. Either way, I'm grateful.

I'm also grateful for the invitation, as my stomach rumbles the moment I step out of the car and smell food cooking. It's typical diner fare—most of what I can detect seems to be fried foods—but there's something savory beneath it all, like a really good, homemade brown gravy.

Of course that gets me thinking of fries with brown gravy slathered over top of them. Sid thought they were disgusting, but she let me make them because she knew Riley and I had a shared love of the greasy, terrible-for-us mess.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Gracie says, gesturing to the diner. "Or what used to be my abode. I'm still trying to find a way to go full cyborg and take it back from my son."

I laugh softly, my mind conjuring images of eighties sci-fi movies. Riley slides out of the car and for the first time, I notice she brought her earbuds with her.

"Music off while we're inside," I tell her.

She sighs but pulls them out.

"Don't worry, there's no diner music to be found here," Gracie assures her. "Eric modernized the place."

It must be hard for her, to have to walk away from a career she so obviously loves and watch her life's work be taken over by someone with a totally different vision—even if that person is her son.

We head inside, and I can instantly see what she means. No candy apple red stools and bright silver tables here. The furniture is modern-chic, I guess you'd call it. I know absolutely nothing about interior design, but that sounds like a phrase people would use to mean 'modern, but not in that super boring way.'

"Have a seat anywhere you like. I'm going to find Eric and let him know you're here. Maybe trick him into letting me make an order or two," she says with a wink, one hand resting briefly on my shoulder and one on Riley's before she leaves us.

"Booth?" I ask, nodding toward an empty one nearby.

Riley shrugs a little. "Sure."

As we settle in, I realize the furniture, the floors, and even the table adornments may be modernized, but the walls are a walk through the past. Almost literally. Old photos and newspaper clippings line the wall, telling the story of not just this diner, but the town.

It's actually pretty neat.

Riley's looking through the menu and I pull mine open, too. It's a small selection, but there are full-color photos of every single dish. It's an ingenious strategy, because every damn thing on the menu looks amazing. I'm particularly drawn to the heaping stack of pancakes bathed in a cascading waterfall of maple syrup. I know it's not the healthiest thing, but it's been a long day and I could use some carbs.

"Aha, so you two are the reason my mother kicked me out of the kitchen," a male voice says from across the diner.

It's not that busy, but I swear every head turns to look at Riley and I. Glancing up, I see a man walking toward us. Absolutely no doubt in my mind that he's Eric—he looks just like his mother, down to the tatted sleeves and piercings. He's even gone one step further, the top layer of his undercut dyed a bright blue.

Some crazy part of me wishes I could pull off a look like that. Probably a mid-life crisis starting early.

"Let me guess: Eric?" I ask.

He grins. "What gave it away? You must be David and Riley. I'll go ahead and apologize for my mom ahead of time. If having her as a next-door neighbor is anything like living with her for twenty years, you're going to be wishing you'd picked another house."

There's a fondness in his eyes when he says it, and that's ultimately what makes me feel comfortable laughing. I can only guess this kind of teasing banter is just a staple of their relationship.

"I guess I'm being demoted to waiter and bus boy, so what can I get you two?"

I decide to pull the trigger on the pancakes, and Riley gets a patty melt and fries. She's never liked breakfast as much as I do. I could eat it morning, noon, and night, but I usually have to twist her arm to get her to scarf down a yogurt in the morning.

When he heads off to put in the order, Riley finally speaks.

"I like his tats."

My brows lift at this admission. Is it the beginnings of a crush, or the slow path toward eventually asking me for a tattoo of her own? I'm not sure I like either option, so I redirect.

"Yeah, it's crazy how alike he and Gracie look. I wonder if they have some of the same tattoos."

"Seems a little weird," she muses. "Can't imagine you and me having the same tattoos."

I know she doesn't mean it that way, but it just highlights how fragile our relationship is. Of course I don't need to share those kinds of things with Riley to feel close to her, but I could see her going to get some ink done with Sid.

I guess I'm always just going to be the uncool dad who sets strict rules and worries about stuff he probably doesn't need to worry about.

As long as it keeps her safe, I don't care.

She goes back to fiddling with her phone, and I take the chance to look at the pictures and newspaper articles on the wall. I even get up to read one after a while, and learn that Glen Springs was once a trading outpost during the Civil War, and a place where Union soldiers could get fresh horses before pressing on.

Our food comes out pretty fast, and Eric and Gracie must have teamed up because someone else brings us the plates. My pancakes look as amazing as they did in the picture, and there's a little gravy boat full of warm maple syrup to go with them. Riley's patty melt looks good, too, the bread perfectly toasted, with cheese oozing out the side.

We both dig in, and I'm in heaven from the first bite of light, fluffy pancakes.

"Holy shit," I hear Riley say, and I'm guessing she's achieved the same bliss. "This is really good."

I don't know who cooked this, but now I understand why one of those pictures features Gracie and Eric standing on either side of Bobby Flay.

"Would I be a bad parent if I just drove us here for dinner every night?" I ask around a mouthful of the best pancakes I've ever eaten.

"Nope," Riley says, shaking her head. She's actually smiling. "In fact, I think it'd be neglect or something if you didn't take me here every night."

I laugh, deciding right here and now that we're definitely going to end up at this place a few times a week. I should probably feed my child something green every once in a while, but Gracie's is definitely going to lay claim to a lot of my paycheck.

We're about halfway through our meal when Gracie herself comes out, an apron tied around her waist. Apparently the two of them have taken to relay cooking.

"So, was I right?" she asks me. "A good meal makes up for everything, right?"

"This is incredible," I say, trying not to talk with my mouth full and half-failing.

"Really good," Riley agrees.

"Eric can work a griddle like nobody's business," she says, a gleam of pride in her eyes along with the same fondness I saw from him earlier. "I'll let you get back to it, but you just holler if you need anything, and come on back to the kitchen when you're ready to go."

She's walking with a bit of a limp when she heads back, and I can't help but wonder how much it's hurting her to work like she used to. I also wonder if Eric fights her on it. There's so much joy in her that I'd definitely have a hard time dissuading her if I were her son.

I go back to my food and only manage another few bites before my body just says no more. Riley's still trucking, champ that she is, so I pull out my phone and see if I have any new emails. I'm supposed to be getting some campaign details from a client sometime tonight.

Those haven't arrived, but there's a something from a Glen Springs High School email address. I glance at Riley before opening it. It's not on an official school letterhead or anything—if emails can even have letterheads—and the language used isn't all that formal.

Mr. Frazier,

I wanted to reach out before your daughter Riley starts her first day of classes at GSHS. I know how hard it can be to transfer to a new school, and how hard it is to move to a new town, so I want to make sure both of you feel welcome.

If you're willing, I'd like to schedule a time when you and I can talk about Riley's needs as a student and your concerns as a parent. I have a free period every day from 11:45 to 12:45, so let me know what would work best for you.

Jacob Morrison

History Department

Glen Springs High School

History. Not exactly a subject Riley is strong in. It could be worth it to sit down with him, though I'm a bit surprised that someone's already writing me about her. I wonder if Mr. Morrison read the transcripts from her previous school.

"What is it?" Riley asks, and I realize my confusion must be clear on my face.

"Your history teacher emailed me to set up a conference."

"Already? Wow. Did you tell him I'm a problem child or something?"

She says it dismissively, like she's joking, but there's a defensive little edge to it that tells me she would unravel completely if I don't say the right thing here. The hell of it is, I was already thinking the worst about this situation, and I don't know how to tell her that. Or if I should.

"I think he's just one of those teachers who likes to be really, really involved in his students' lives," I say, unsure if that's anywhere near the truth.

It seems plausible, at least, and Riley's posture goes from defensive to agitated, which is a slight improvement.

"Great. Love those. I especially loved when Mrs. Altman tried to talk to me about Mom every day for two weeks," she mutters.

My jaw clenches and a mix of pain and anger flickers through me, lighting a fire behind my breastbone. It was nice that she cared, and I think she meant well. But she was way out of line, and I'm still convinced her meddling is why Riley ended up skipping so many days.

"I won't let that happen again," I tell her. There must be something in my voice, because she actually looks up to meet my gaze. "I promise."

I was going to go to that conference anyway, but now I'm going to go into it not just as Riley's advocate, but her protector. All I can hope is that this Mr. Morrison is as genuine as he seems.