Chapter 13
Brenda returned balancing two heavy ceramic mugs of black coffee that sloshed slightly over the rims, followed shortly by a plate piled high with greasy diner bacon, scrambled eggs, and a stack of thick-cut white toast straight from the toaster. She set the plates down with a clatter, eyeing Julian’s dark tuxedo jacket draped over the side of the red vinyl booth. "Looks like you lost your jacket tonight, kid," she said dryly, setting a small plastic tub of butter beside the toast. Julian smiled, feeling the last remnants of his old life melt away in the warm, steamy air of the diner. "Found something better, Brenda," he said, taking a sip of the bitter, piping-hot coffee. Arthur reached out with a steady hand and picked up a slice of the white toast, buttering it slowly with a dull knife. It wasn't the artisanal sourdough served on silver platters at the country club, and it wasn't the pathetic crust he had been handed in the service kitchen while hiding from the guests. It was simple, warm, and entirely honest. He took a bite, chewing slowly, the familiar taste bringing a faint, genuine smile to his tired face. Julian watched him, feeling an immense weight lift off his shoulders. The high-society facade was gone, leaving behind the only thing that had ever truly mattered: a father, a son, and a quiet booth in a place that didn't care who you pretended to be.
