Jackson

Benny’s was packed like it always was on Sundays — football guys crammed into booths, someone’s little brother running between tables, the smell of syrup and burnt coffee in the air.

It was exactly the kind of normal I needed.

Noah sat across from me, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate, his baseball cap pulled low like he could hide from the world. I didn’t blame him. If I saw one more post, one more comment, I might throw my phone through the diner window.

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