Chapter 18
Two years later, Nick came back for the summer.
He stepped into the restaurant taller, cleaner, still cautious around doorways.
Thomas tackled him in a hug.
Nick pretended to hate it.
He failed.
Teresa followed with a suitcase and a smile.
“He talked about this place for six months.”
Nick rolled his eyes.
“So did she.”
We laughed.
Safe laughter.
The kind nobody had to earn by surviving danger first.
That summer, Nick worked in the kitchen with Luis.
Thomas hosted Shelter Sundays.
I watched them move around the restaurant like they belonged to the same map.
One night, Nick found me counting receipts.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He sat across from me.
“I used to think adults only helped if they got something.”
“What changed?”
He looked toward Thomas, who was stacking chairs badly.
“He asked me to come back.”
I swallowed hard.
“You did come back.”
“Yeah.”
He tapped the table.
“I want to be a social worker. Or a lawyer. Something where kids don’t need recordings to be believed.”
My eyes filled.
“That sounds like you.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m the owner. I cry where I want.”
He laughed.
Thomas shouted, “Mom’s crying again?”
“Yes,” Nick called back. “Very unprofessional.”
May you like
For once, the restaurant’s silence was replaced by teasing.
That felt like justice too.
