He walked into a dusty diner for coffee and found the friend who once saved his future wiping tables for tips. The smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee wasn’t what Matthew Branson had planned for his Tuesday morning. He was supposed to be halfway to a meeting in downtown Phoenix reviewing property reports in the back of his town car. Instead, a flat tire on the highway left him stranded outside Yuma, Arizona with nothing but a roadside diner called Patty’s Place in sight.
He pushed open the glass door, the bell above it giving a tired jingle. The place looked frozen in time. Vinyl booths patched with duct tape, faded photos of local softball teams on the walls, a jukebox that probably hadn’t played a song in years. Matthew adjusted his jacket feeling out of place in his tailored suit among truckers and farmers wearing ball caps. He slid into a corner booth, ordered black coffee, and was pulling out his phone when a voice said, “Morning.
Can I get you started with some breakfast?” He looked up and for a second his mind went completely blank. Standing there with a pen and pad in hand was Renee Parker, not a Renee Parker, the Renee Parker, his best friend from middle school. The girl who used to quiz him on fractions while they sat on the stoop of her apartment building. The one who taught him to ignore the kids who made fun of his thrift store sneakers.
The one who had bigger dreams than anyone he’d ever met. But here she was, wearing a faded apron, hair pulled back in a loose bun, eyes a little more tired than he remembered. She didn’t recognize him, not yet. She was too busy wiping her hands on a dish towel, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was trying to smile through exhaustion. Matthew’s throat tightened. He hadn’t seen her in over 20 years. Back then, they’d both sworn they’d leave their struggling neighborhood and never look back.
