choice.
Halfway through the meal, the manager approached and quietly placed dessert on our table.
Compliments of the house.
No note.
No performance.
Just one extra plate of lemon cake.
When I looked toward the bar, Nicholas Moretti was there in a dark suit, speaking with a supplier.
He did not come over.
He only lifted two fingers once in acknowledgment, then turned back to his conversation.
That was exactly right.
Because he had not saved me in the way stories like to pretend.
He had interrupted the lie.
I saved myself every day after that.
And when I stepped out onto West Erie later that night, warm air brushing my face, I realized something simple and enormous.
For the first time in a very long time, I was not trying to make myself smaller.
I was just walking home.
