On his right ring finger, the heavy gold of our 1972 high school class ring caught the light, the blue stone in the center scratched but still deep and dark.
He wore a tailored gray suit jacket that fit his shoulders without a single wrinkle, and the fabric looked much too fine for the cracked red vinyl of our booth.
“You still take it black,” he said, nodding toward my mug.
“Some habits are too hard to break,” I said, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. “You look well, Garrett.”
“I am managing,” he said, rubbing his left wrist with his right hand, a quick, anxious gesture that drew my eye to his expensive gold watch. “The years have a way of catching up, but being back in Oakhaven makes them feel a little lighter.”
“I heard you moved away to the city,” I said. “That you did very well for yourself.”
“I had some luck in manufacturing,” he said, dismissing the thought with a small wave of his hand. “But luck does not keep you warm at night, Eleanor.”
