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had worked so hard to unscramble slid from my mind.
    It wasn’t until I reached into the far left pocket of my waist apron for a check holder nearly an hour later that I realized why my apron had felt so odd since the lunch rush had begun.
    My notebook wasn’t in there.
    I spun in a circle to face the front of the restaurant. Fear and embarrassment flooded me as I scanned the filled booths up there.
    â€œCharlie.”
    My head snapped up at the sound of my name, and I stared wide-­eyed at Wendy, another waitress, as she looked me over, plates of food balanced precariously along her arm.
    â€œYou okay?” she asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    Her eyes darted over my face quickly again, her eyebrows pulled together. “Are you okay? You’re just staring off with a check in your hand. Did a table run out on you?”
    â€œNo! No, nothing like that. I just . . . I just realized that I left my notebook at one of the booths in your section.” Before I could tell her that it contained words that were somewhat personal, her eyes lit up with acknowledgement.
    â€œIs it brown, soft leather?”
    â€œYes!” I said in relief.
    â€œWell, whoever found it left it on the desk up front. I just saw it there when I went to grab menus to seat a ­couple. I put it in the cabinet up there.”
    â€œThanks, Wendy.” My voice still ached with the relief I felt, but the thought that someone had possibly read my words had my cheeks darkening from my embarrassment.
    I hurried to take the check to my waiting table, then rushed into the kitchen to grab another’s food as I tried to force unwanted thoughts from my mind.
    But throughout the rest of my shift, all I could think about was that someone had held my notebook; had seen my words. Even Jagger knew not to touch my notebook or ask to see what I wrote in there. And I wondered what the stranger, or strangers, had thought. Had they mocked my darkest dreams and deepest thoughts? Had they been immature and destroyed them? Had they torn the ink-­filled pages out to be hateful?
    Each pass to the front desk to seat newcomers left me itching to grab the notebook from the cabinet, but I’d known I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from inspecting the pages right then instead of doing my job.
    It was a long three hours.
    As soon as I clocked out, I nearly ran to the front. Dread filled me and my hands shook as I finally opened the cabinet, and I dropped to my knees to reach in and rip my notebook from its depths.
    After wasting only half a second to run my hand over the cover, I opened my notebook and quickly scanned each page. My worry lessened with each piece of paper that slid beneath the tips of my fingers. A soft, nearly inaudible laugh bubbled from my throat when I got to the page I’d been working on during my break, and I started to shut the notebook when I realized what I’d just seen.
    A different-­colored pen.
    More words crossed out. More added.
    A note on the side of the page in a messy, masculine scrawl that most definitely did not belong to me.
    Who listen ed s to your stories sad songs
    The shoulder that you cried cry on
    Out on that cliff ledge you walk ed on
    When
    The note on the side read:
    Right . . . so I don’t know you, but I’m now fucking terrified for you. If I had the time, I’d wait to see who showed up looking for this journal. I changed some words because I want you to know that I’m here listening to you. And “cliff” sounded so final. Don’t let whatever you’re feeling be final. I’ll be back. Will you hold on if you know I’m coming back for you?
    I read the note again . . . and then again. Each time my brow pinched tighter. I glanced up at the few words I’d managed to get out during my break, then let my face fall into the pages of the notebook as a groan escaped me.
    I sat down right there, behind the greeter’s desk of Mama’s