“Alone.
Somewhere public.”
“Today?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where?”
I gave him the name of a café near the library.
He agreed.
Before ending the call, he said, “I’m sorry.”
The apology was so quiet I almost missed it.
I closed my eyes.
“Come prepared to tell me what you’re sorry for,” I said.
The café was busy the next day.
Students worked at tables near the windows, an elderly couple shared a pastry, and a young mother tried to keep her toddler from scattering sugar packets across the floor.
I arrived early and chose a table near the back.
Logan came in twelve minutes late.
He looked older than he had three weeks earlier.
His shirt was wrinkled.
His hair needed cutting.
Dark circles sat beneath his eyes.
He held himself like a man carrying something fragile.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hello.”
He sat across from me.
For a few moments, neither of us touched the menus.
