By the time eight o’clock rolls around, Emily’s finished eating and down to the dregs of her second cup of coffee. Another waitress has come in to replace Jenna, and the only other customers are a pair of elderly men at opposite ends of the bar. They obviously know each other, though; they carry on a conversation as if they’re sitting side by side. Emily sips her coffee and fights the urge to tell them to shut the f**k up.
Jenna finally comes out from around the counter again, no apron on this time, a purse slung over one shoulder. That long curly hair—the first thing Emily still thinks of when she thinks of her former best friend—is pulled into a messy bun at the nape of Jenna’s neck; wavy strands escape to frame her face. She looks exhausted from her shift, and Emily expects her to plop
