Same dimples. Same wide brown eyes. Same soft mouth I had once watched smiling at me under prom lights when I was 17 and trying not to believe in miracles.
I found the girl I had carried in my heart for 20 years standing on my porch in a faded delivery jacket.
Charlotte held out the food with both hands, fingers trembling from the cold, a damp baseball cap shadowing her face.
« Your order, sir, » she said.
Sir. Not Tyler. Not even a flicker of recognition.
I took the bag but kept staring. Back in high school, I had been the « big » grieving kid nobody looked at unless they wanted a laugh. Now I was 37, leaner, steadier, and worn smooth by years of building a life from scratch.
Charlotte had no reason to connect this man to the overweight boy I used to be. Still, it stung.
« Do you want some water? » I finally managed. « You look exhausted. »
