My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
The Oakridge Diner was nearly empty when I walked in at ten. The air inside smelled of grease and burnt toast, and the heater over the door gave a loud, metallic clank every time the wind blew outside. Frank was sitting in the corner booth, his eyes fixed on a local newspaper. A thick white mug sat in front of him.
“Mia,” Frank said, his booming, cheerful laugh filling the small booth. “You look like you need a warm cup of something. Two dollars and fifty cents for a cup of warm water, but at least they let me sit here as long as I want.”
I sat across from him and did not order anything. “Frank, I need to ask you about five years ago.”
Frank wiped his glasses with a clean white cloth he kept in his breast pocket. “Most people my age want to forget five years ago. What is on your mind?”
“My mother’s silver sedan,” I said. “After the accident on Oakridge Road, she said the car was towed to the scrap yard in Meadville.”
