I smile and give in. I am a little hungry. And it has been a while.
We sit in the same booth we always used to when we’d come here before. Breakfast with Dad at Lucille’s was another one of those things, like running, that started out as part of our regular routine, then as business picked up turned into a special occasion, and then finally just fell off altogether. I can’t remember the last time we were here, but nothing about the little country diner has changed. Dad leans over his coffee in its chipped mug, closes his eyes, and breathes in the aroma like it’s the best smell in the world.
“So what’s new with you?” He takes a sip. Savors it. “You’ve become quite the beach bum these days.”
I nod. “I’ve been having fun over there.”
“And Ryan says you’re getting fast again. Says you’re giving her a run for her money.” He takes another sip of his coffee.
“Does she?” This makes me smile, because she’d sooner push herself until she passed out than admit that to me. “That’s funny, because all she says to me is that I can do better.”
My dad laughs. “That sounds about right. You probably can. Your sister calls ’em like she sees ’em. Always has.” He pauses and sets down his coffee to pick up his menu.
I think about the things Ryan said to me last night, about not counting the days, or feeling bad about spending time with Colton, and I want so much to believe her, but it’s hard, knowing that what she sees isn’t the entire picture.
My dad closes his menu and folds his hands on top of it, and I can tell there’s something more to this breakfast trip. I tense, waiting to see what it is and hoping that she didn’t tell him about Colton, or last night, or anything else.
“I was thinking,” he says, trying to sound casual but failing. “You might want to consider signing up for a few classes over at the city college—so you could join the cross-country team. The coach there would love to have you. Said he’d gladly take you as a walk-on.”
“What?” Surprise hides my relief. “You checked?”
“Ryan did.”
“Wow, am I like her service project this summer?”
“No,” Dad says, “she just wants to see you happy. And running again seems to be one of the things that does that for you.” He pauses. “You know, along with the beach, and whoever’s over there. Maybe the not-homely beach kid?”
I look down at my menu, nervous all over again. “Did Ryan tell you that too?”
“She doesn’t need to—your mom and I can see it. And it’s good, Quinn, it’s—”
“Oh my god.” I see a familiar profile stand up two booths behind my dad.
“Honey, it’s really okay—”
I shake my head, motion behind him because I can’t say anything.
He turns around and sees her too, only he’s not paralyzed like I am at the moment. Instead he puts his napkin on the table, stands, and goes to greet Trent’s mom. They hug each other, and I can’t hear what they say, but I see him motion to me sitting at the table before they both come walking over. I stand, feeling guilty all of a sudden that it’s been so long since I’ve gone to visit her.
“Quinn, honey,” she says, opening her arms. “It’s so good to see you!”
“You too,” I say, and aside from the initial shock, it is.
She holds on so long and tight, it’s a little uncomfortable. Finally, she pulls me back by my shoulders. “Look at you! You look amazing!”
“Thank you,” I say. “You do too.” And she does. The dark circles that seemed permanent have disappeared from beneath her eyes, and her hair has color in it again, and she’s even put on makeup. She almost looks like the version of herself that used to tease us if she caught us in a kiss, and who cared about my race times as much as Trent’s. Like herself, before. Almost.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ve been trying to get out more these days, volunteering here and there—keeping busy. You know,” she adds, and there’s a hint of sadness in it.
My dad works to keep the conversation light. “Quinn has been busy too,” he says. “She’s running again, has taken up kayaking. . . .”
He leaves me room to jump in. I don’t. “Keeping busy” seems to be code for “moving on,” which seems insensitive to admit to Trent’s mom, even though she said it herself first.
She tilts her head to the side, reaches out, and lays a hand on my cheek. “That is fabulous to hear, sweetheart, it really is. And what about school?”
My dad clears his throat, and I surprise myself by speaking up; but I don’t want him to have to answer again for me. “I’m still figuring that one out, but I might take a few classes at the city college in the fall—enough to run for them.”
I can feel my dad smile next to me.
Trent’s mom throws her arms around me again. “Oh Quinn, that’s just wonderful.” She squeezes me tight and speaks quieter, close to my ear. “Trent would be so happy that you’re doing so well. So happy.”
I think of how I spent the first four hundred days after he died—for the first time, I really try to imagine what he would’ve thought if he could’ve seen me then. I don’t know if it’s this shift in focus or the sincerity in his mom’s voice, but I believe her. I think if he could see me now, he’d want me to “keep busy,” and make plans, and . . . move on.
“Listen,” she says, “I have an appointment, so I need to get going, but it was so nice to see you both.”
She gives me one more hug, then hugs my dad too. And then before she turns to leave, she says good-bye, but I hear something more in it. Somehow it feels a bit more final than the other good-byes we’ve said. More like letting go. Though it makes me a little sad, I understand it. We’ll always be connected by Trent, and our past, but time has stretched that connection so it already feels weaker, which seems inevitable.
My dad looks at me after she walks out the doorway. “You okay? That was . . . unexpected.”