“Yeah, you do know me,” he said, his voice softer now. “It’s me… Roman.”
The name hit me like a freight train. Roman!
Memories of a younger version of him flooded back. He’d also worked at the diner nearly two decades ago. Roman had been one of the line cooks, a pleasant and easygoing man whose charm won over customers and staff alike.
And then the memory that burned brightest: the day he was fired.
“You stole that money,” I blurted, the accusation tumbling out before I could stop it. “You cleared out the register and the tip jar!”
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