Chapter 8
Lily
Bright streamers—blue, orange, and green—twist over and between tree branches, the ends fluttering in the warm breeze. Sweat rolls down my back as I lug another plastic crate of diner supplies from Mitch’s van.
“Tag! You’re it!” someone yells, and a pack of unruly boys bolts across the park’s well-manicured grass.
I could be halfway up Ridge Trail right now. Instead, I’m two towns over from Pinebrook—which apparently is in an entire other tax bracket. What in the imported hedges is this? I swear they tried to shape these bushy things into animal shapes.
There’s one of those fancy playgrounds made of sleek composite wood and soft rubber turf that makes me laugh at the memories I compare it to.
It’s modern and minimalist, like it was plucked from an IKEA catalog.
Back home, we had two metal slides, both strategically placed to catch the sun and brand your ass and thighs as you slid down.
The swing set groaned a tune that sounded like a dying chicken, and the mulch? Wood chips. Sharp ones.
We left with scars and cool stories, but this place smells like lavender sanitizer and hot rubber.
I’d probably still take the splinters.
Mitch got me, though. I had to open my mouth and ask for more hours. Frankly, he’s been decreasing them by an hour here and there because of some new hires, and that’s why I asked. Technically, I didn’t say I wanted them at the diner, but it was implied.
Now I’m stuck under a pavilion that looks like something from a wedding catalog for a ten-year-old’s birthday because he’s so spoiled he needed a grilled cheese bar from his favorite diner. Honestly, don’t ask me to repeat that. I can’t believe what just came out of my mouth.
I have to give it to them, though, it’s beautiful at this park. Whitewashed beams, hanging flower baskets, strung up fairy lights for when dusk settles. It even smells good here, like honey, and we haven’t even begun grilling the sandwiches yet.
Lucky me. I get to cater grilled cheese here for an army of children while pretending I don’t resent the choice that led me here. My only hope is that I get to steal a piece of cake.
The choppy music thumps, overpowering the chatter of well-dressed moms, and for that I’m grateful.
Crisp button-downs, dresses, tailored polos, expensive shoes.
These parents mill around in what I’m assuming are designer outfits, sipping from glass tumblers like it’s one of my mom’s garden parties and not a kid’s birthday party.
An orange balloon pops from a bunch tied to the pavilion post, and I startle, the crate in my hands crashing to the ground. “Shit.” That damn prank phone call got to me. I’m not sure why I’ve let it bother me, trigger me, but it doesn’t help with my already persistent nightmares.
“Lily! Let’s get this set up,” Mitch barks, his head buried in the back of the van.
Damn man is stressing. He told me he doesn’t cater much, but his wife knows the boy’s mother and well, he’s stuck.
We all are.
He’s brought me and one of the line cooks in the kitchen. I don’t know his name, don’t care to ask, but he’s short, stays out of the way, and isn’t flirting with the moms, so who am I to complain.
I scoop up the packages of pre-sliced cheeses and other fixings, dumping them into the crate and standing before I head to the buffet table. While party guests arrive and help themselves to drinks, I set up the grilled cheese bar.
Fresh loaves of sourdough, rye, and white bread start the line, followed by bacon crumbles, caramelized onions, roasted red peppers, tomato slices that Hannah chopped so well they almost look fake.
Mitch went all out with the cheeses: sharp cheddar, creamy mozzarella, smoky gouda. I’m over it already.
It’s unseasonably warm, and sweat beads on my temples, but I prop up the small chalkboard sign anyway and write Build Your Own Grilled Cheese in curvy white letters.
Our table is set up next to the dessert, and I gaze at the three-tiered cake. Bright blue frosting swirls at the base like waves, contrasted by neon orange piped in playful zigzags. Green fondant stars decorate the top in a chaotic way, and past that—
I spot the uniform and my heart jumps into my throat. That’s before I see who’s in it.
All clean lines in that forest-green ranger uniform, Ranger Sullivan shifts his broad shoulders as he looks through the crowd of people.
His sleeves are rolled, exposing thick forearms, and his badge gleams in the afternoon sun.
In his hand is a neatly wrapped box, simple baby blue paper tied with brown twine.
Of course, he brought a gift. And of course he walked in here in uniform as a distraction.
When he spots someone he knows, he walks up to the man, also in uniform—local police from the looks of it. My lip curls when the cop crosses his arms and gives him a smug smirk. They chat for a moment, both of them laughing, and I continue to watch them out of the corner of my eye.
Unfortunately, Ranger Sullivan spots me almost instantly and lifts a hand in a casual wave. I look over my shoulder to make sure he’s gesturing at me and then nod at him. Figures.
I’ll admit he’s the last person I expected at a little boy’s birthday two towns over, like he just strolled out of a recruitment poster. I’m surprised his trusty drooling sidekick isn’t here.
I busy myself plugging in the electric griddles, but my eyes flick to him seconds later, involuntarily.
His are locked on me. Then he moves my direction.
No, no.
I turn away.
“Lily.” He speaks my name softly, like he’s testing it. Or moreover, me and my resolve.
I look up from where I fiddle with the dial on the grill, and he smiles at me, perusing the table. “Is this your—”
“No.”
The smell of butter hitting the hot griddle curls through the air as sizzling fills in the awkward gap of silence. Neither of us speaks and I adjust the hair tie on my wrist several times before pulling it off and putting my hair up.
“Well, it looks really good. It was nice seeing you.”
He lingers for a second, and I offer him a tight-lipped smile. “You, too.”
Loud classic rock booms from the speakers set on the tables and I wrinkle my nose. To my dismay, he pauses, catching me.
“You don’t like this music?”
I wince and open my mouth but shut it to shake my head instead.
He tilts his head to the side. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Jazz.”
He blinks and then his eyes widen, seemingly surprised I answered so quickly. His gaze flicks down to the combat boots on my feet, like he’s trying to reconcile my answer.
It’s bogus. I hate jazz. But I steel my face, screwing it as serious as possible and watch his expression work through the gamut before he dips his chin and turns away, again.
A bitter pull of disappointment curls in my belly.
The party officially starts, and I spend the next hour explaining cheese choices to little kids while our line cook flips sandwiches for a bunch of sugar-drunk ten-year-olds.
Once all the kids have made their sandwiches, the adults come through, and to my surprise the ranger doesn’t. He opts for a bottle of water.
“Isn’t he hot? I love a man in uniform.” A woman selecting her bread giggles as she speaks with her friend through the line.
There are only two men in uniform here, and I have a good idea who they’re talking about. I roll my eyes. Yet another reason law enforcement feels entitled—they’re literally propped up by the flirtatious comments of—
I glance down at her left hand. Yep—married women.
“He was the one that rescued Joe and Ethan, you know.”
“Really? I wish he’d rescue me.” The same woman who commented on how “hot” he is flicks an onion from her long, fake fingernails.
“Heard he did rescue some woman a couple weeks ago. A tourist from Pinebrook.”
My head snaps in their direction, and I accidentally bang my hand on the table. Both look up at me, giving me an eat shit look.
A boy’s exclamation draws all our attention, and I see the birthday boy jumping up and down holding a baseball and jersey in his hand. He runs to Ranger Sullivan and gives him a long hug.
Both women suck in a breath and let out longing sighs.
When they finally hand over their sandwiches for griddle pressing, I may or may not leave them on a bit longer than I should.
The rest of the party goes on. More gifts, more tag, a pinata with more candy they don’t need, and cake accompanied by a “Happy Birthday” serenading.
As I’m cleaning up, sweaty and smelling like burned bread, I watch the slices of precut cake on the table dwindle down. Finally, the last piece is claimed, and I kick a blade of grass.
“Hey. Before you sneak off, I’ve got something for you.” Mitch approaches and pulls out a folded envelope from his back pocket. It’s wet and wrinkled with perspiration. I hesitate, and he shakes it at me. “Thought you needed this.”
“I hope you included hazard pay.” These rambunctious kids nearly ran me over earlier.
He snorts, but I snatch the envelope and open it. Two hundred bucks for a few hours of melted cheese, melted skin, and mild emotional trauma? I guess I’ll take it.
I flip through the bunch of twenties. “What no handwritten apology note.”
He flicks a hand at me. “Two months and you’re already a pain in my ass. Go home, Parker. I’ll see you at the diner for your next shift.”
I smile, and Mitch hops into the van while I think about the vape poking out of the side pocket of my bag.
The chaos of the party has wound down into a boring dull as some workers slowly shift the pavilion from celebration back to its bare bones.
White folding chairs screech across the concrete as they stack them.
Streamers get yanked down and stuffed in trash bags, and the quiet turns out to be more depressing than the playing kids and popping balloons.
I wrestle with my bag, lug it over my shoulder, the dirt from the bottom scuffing along my white button-up, and I tuck my cash into the side pocket.
When I look up, Ranger Sullivan remains.
He leans against one of the pavilion posts, one hand in his pocket, cheeks red from the sun. In his other hand, a plate with a single piece of cake.
I look around, wondering why he’s standing there, but then he steps forward, taking several long strides toward me.
Why hasn’t he left yet? My chest tightens. I should be relieved this party is over. There are several hours of daylight; I could hit a short trail.
His eyes track me until he’s standing in front of me. He extends the plate, a green plastic fork sticking straight out of the top of an uneaten piece. “Here. Saved you some. Have a good night, Lily.”
I blink and then finally take it. He withdraws, walking across the open grassy area toward the parking lot.