Page 6 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“Jesus, Shel.”

“Yeah.” She finally turns off the faucet. “So. There goes a year and a half of my life. Poof.”

My arms are around her before I even think about it. “I’m sorry.”

She leans into me for half a second—just half—before she pulls back, already rebuilding the walls.

“Anyway,” she says, forcing brightness back into her voice, “like I said, on the bright side, batteries really don’t leave you for hypothetical future brain deterioration.”

“I’m a dick.”

She frowns. “Why? Are you also planning on abandoning me?”

“Well, I have already, haven’t I?”

“Stop. You’re being ridiculous. Dannica, no one blames you for being distracted lately. The diner has been crazy.”

If only it was just the busy diner I had to worry about. “Still…”

“Could you guys have your little heart to heart some other time? The evening crowd got hungry early,” Quadri complains from the pass.

“See what I mean?” Shelly says. You don’t even have time to take a shit these days.”

“Wow, that’s graphic.”

“Am I wrong?”

“I plead the fifth.”

The hours are eaten up by taking orders and cleaning tables. I’ve also restocked the bathroom, jotted down the items we’re short on—again—and made a mental note to double the order of toilet paper because apparently our customers “panic-use” it. I can safely say my prediction about being exhausted did not fail me. Grandma says I manifested it. I’m not sure I buy that. If manifesting worked, I’d be in a large city, reporting on something bigger than Mr. Davenport’s dental situation.

Preferably while Chris Hemsworth feeds me grapes every time I add a comma.

Wow. Where did that come from?

DELUSIONAL REPORTER IS DELUSIONAL.

All right, not my best work, but I’m exhausted, okay?

We’ve just locked up, and I’m sitting at the counter with my laptop, getting ready to complete the restocking order. My eyes wander lazily over the familiarity of the space. The diner isn’t your usual grease-stained, flickering-neon-lights kind of place. Maybe I’m biased, but Grandma and Mom made the restaurant beautiful.

Floor-to-ceiling windows pull the outside in, and the evergreens that line the streets are so thick it feels like we’re tucked inside a forest year-round. Natural light spills across worn hunter-green booths and light wood tables scuffed from everyday use. The marble counter curves just enough for whoever’s behind it to see the entire room. It’s thoughtful and intentional. Elegant without trying too hard. Which is why it grates when Beverly makes her snide little comments. This restaurant is classy and warm, even if it is somewhat worn. And sometimes, when the light hits just right and the hum of conversation settles into something steady and familiar, it feels like the safest place in the world. And sometimes… It feels like a gilded cage.

Quadri sidles up beside me and shoulder-checks me gently. “All right. I’ve had enough of your mopey face today. We’re going drinking.”

Mary and Shelly drift over like they’ve been summoned.

“I’ll be the designated driver,” Mary offers.

“Yup,” Shelly says. “We spoke about this. You definitely need a night out. Alley Cats, here we come.”

The name alone makes my chest tight. Alley Cats, the only bar in Boudica Springs. The same sticky floors, the same faces, the same stories told on repeat like we’re afraid of new ones. We go nearly every week when I’m not busy. I swallow.

“I’ve got an order to do,” I say, tapping my laptop. “Not tonight.”

Shelly snorts. “I call bullshit. You did it on the weekend.”

“I did it, but I haven’t submitted it yet. I still need to add a few things.”