I stopped by the reception desk on my way out.

“I have an emergency personal errand,” I told the receptionist. “I should be back in an hour.”

She nodded without looking up from her monitor.

The air outside was freezing, biting at my face as I walked to my car.

The drive to the diner was a blur of wipers scraping against the windshield and red brake lights.

The diner was a low-slung, brick building with a neon sign that flickered weakly in the gray afternoon light.

Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee, burnt grease, and maple syrup.

I scanned the room.

Kayla was sitting in a booth in the far corner, near the restrooms.

She looked different than she did in the social media photos I had obsessed over.

Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she wore a heavy, oversized sweater that didn’t quite hide her pregnant belly.

Her face was pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

I walked over and sat down in the vinyl booth opposite her.