Kenna walks toward me, her clothes soaking wet. She takes the same seat she sat in the first time she was here. She pulls Diem’s scrunchie out of her hair and then leans over the bar and grabs a handful of napkins. “Well. You were right about the rain,” she says, drying her face and her arms. “I need a ride home.” I’m confused, because the last time she got out of my truck, she was so angry with me I was positive she’d never be inside of it again. “From me?” She shrugs. “You. An Uber. A cab. I don’t care. But first I want a coffee. I hear you guys carry caramel now.” She’s in a feisty mood. I
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