I pressed a hand to my mouth because tears were coming whether I wanted them or not.
“Me?” I croaked.
James smiled, just a little. “Yes. You. You already acted like the kind of manager this place needs.”
I shook my head, overwhelmed. “I don’t know if I can—”
“You can,” he said firmly. Then softer: “And you won’t do it alone.”
He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a business card.
On the back, he wrote something quickly and handed it to me.
It was his personal number.
“If anyone gives you trouble,” he said quietly, “you call me.”
I stared at the card like it was made of gold.
The employees were still clapping. Someone even wiped their eyes. Customers smiled at me like I was part of something bigger than a diner shift.
The soft piano music from the speakers—something the diner always played—seemed to rise, like it understood the moment.
James glanced toward the door where Carl had left. “One more thing,” he said.
He walked to the corner booth, sat down for a moment, and looked at the empty plate space where the sandwich had been.
Then he looked up at me.
“Emily,” he said, “next time you see someone hungry, don’t hide it.”
