“You okay?”
She did not answer.
Instead she turned the phone toward me.
He's still not here. Say the word and I'll fake an emergency call.
Then beneath it:
Your table at Marino’s is ready whenever he arrives.
I stared.
“No.”
She swallowed.
“What restaurant?”
“Marino’s.”
Her eyes closed.
“Of course.”
I looked at my phone again.
Then at her.
“Your friend’s name?”
She told me.
I knew it.
My sister had mentioned her twice.
The coworker who had arranged everything with her.
I stared at the woman.
She stared back.
Neither of us spoke.
A truck roared past and sent dust across the shoulder.
Finally I said:
“So.”
“So.”
“I fixed my blind date's truck.”
“Apparently.”
“And you spent forty minutes insulting the mechanic you're supposed to have dinner with.”
“I did not insult you.”
“You criticized my pricing.”
“That was justified.”
I laughed.
She did too.
The absurdity became impossible to resist.
Then she looked at the old pickup.
Her smile faded.
“You still want to go?”
The question surprised me.
“To dinner?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward town.
Then at her.
“Do you?”
“I don't know.”
That was honest.
So I answered honestly too.
“Neither do I.”
We stood beside the truck in evening light like two people trying to decide whether a coincidence was permission or warning.
Then the pickup shuddered slightly at idle.
Something inside the cab clicked.
The glove compartment dropped open.
A stack of old insurance papers and registration receipts slid onto the passenger floor.
An envelope followed.
It landed face up.
I could see the handwriting from outside.
I stopped breathing.
The woman noticed.
“What?”
I walked around the hood.
The envelope lay beside the seat.
Old.
Yellowed.
My family surname was written across the front.
Not a common spelling.
Not the kind you saw twice in one county by accident.
My entire body went cold.
The woman looked from the envelope to me.
“What is it?”
I reached through the open passenger door.
Did not touch it.
“Who owned this truck?”
She frowned.
“The man I told you about.”
“Who was he?”
“My father.”
I looked at her.
“Your father?”
“Not biologically.”
That answer made the ground shift beneath me.
“What was his name?”
She told me.
The first name was unfamiliar.
The surname was not.
Mine.
I stared at the envelope.
Then at her.
“Did he ever mention a son?”
The woman became very still.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
My voice came out harder than I intended.
“Think.”
She stepped back.
“I said no.”
I closed my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“What is happening?”