He reached out further, his hand resting near mine on the laminated table.
“I got the rent covered yesterday,” I said, keeping my voice low so the other waitress would not hear us from the counter. “I don’t need your money, Julian.”
He did not flinch or snap back at me.
He only nodded, his eyes wide and apparently filled with a quiet regret that made my chest tighten.
“I’m glad,” he said. “Really, I am.”
He picked up his spoon and tapped it against the edge of his saucer, a rhythmic clinking that matched the hum of the diner’s pastry case.
“I just want to make sure we both walk away from this with some dignity, Cara,” he said.
The kitchen doors swung open, bringing the smell of toasted white bread and butter.
I stood up, tucking my order pad into my apron pocket.
“I have to get back to my tables,” I said.
“Of course,” he said, sliding out of the booth and pulling his gray coat around his shoulders. “Let me walk you to the door.”
