Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
OH, HEY THERE, MAGIC, IT’S ME!
The Pot & Kettle smells like fried dough, grilled meat, and coffee.
It’s the kind of comfort you can’t buy in a city no matter how expensive the restaurant is, no matter how many stars some food critic has bestowed upon it.
There’s a weight to the air here, a permanence that speaks of decades of conversations, of people coming here both for food and the ritual of belonging somewhere.
It’s not fancy. The linoleum floors are worn smooth in the pathways between tables, scuffed by countless footsteps and chair legs dragged across them.
The ceiling tiles are the kind of off-white that suggests they were actually white once upon a time, back when this place first opened its doors.
It’s warm in a way that seeps into your bones, the kind of warmth that has nothing to do with the heating system and everything to do with the accumulated presence of people who’ve made this place a second home.
The booths are worn-in, upholstered in vinyl that’s been patched in a few places with duct tape that doesn’t quite match the original burgundy color.
The kind of vinyl that squeaks if you slide too fast or threatens to stick to the back of your thighs during the summer months when the air conditioning can’t quite keep up with the heat.
Each table bears the small scars of its history, ring stains from countless coffee cups, tiny scratches from silverware, and the occasional gouge that speaks of animated conversations punctuated by emphatic gestures.
The walls are a testament to Ruby Springs’ history, decorated with old photographs in mismatched frames that look like they’ve been collected over decades rather than purchased as a set.
Sepia-toned smiles look down from their perches, festival crowds frozen in moments of celebration, children with gap-toothed grins holding cotton candy, couples posed stiffly in their Sunday best. There’s a picture of what must be a Founder’s Day parade that looks like it’s been hanging there long enough to be considered a town heirloom, the corners slightly curled and the glass reflecting the overhead lights, so it’s hard to make out all the details unless you lean in close.
The place is busy in that easy, midday way that speaks of routine rather than rush.
Locals talk in easy rhythms, their conversations flowing with the comfortable cadence of people who’ve known each other for years.
A couple of teenagers huddle in the corner booth, pretending they aren’t texting under the table while sharing a plate of fries.
An older man sits alone by the window, reading a newspaper with the kind of deliberate attention that suggests he’s been coming here to do exactly this for years, like it’s still 1997.
People glance up when I walk in, and there’s a choreography to it that I’m beginning to recognize.
Some smile, offering friendly nods of acknowledgment to Maceo, who everyone in this town seems to absolutely adore.
Their faces light up when they see him, like he’s a favorite nephew who’s just walked into a family gathering.
Others just eye me curiously, taking stock of me a beat too long, trying to catalog the details of my appearance like they’re building a mental file to discuss later.
At this point, even after two weeks in Ruby Springs, this has become the norm, this constant, gentle scrutiny that follows me everywhere I go.
Then there are the ones who look at me with hope.
Pure, undisguised hope shining in their eyes like I’m the answer to a prayer they’ve been whispering for months.
Now that I understand the circumstances from which that hope stems, now that I know about the failing wards and the town’s desperate need for the real Anchor, something they lost when my grandmother died, I get it.
I understand why my presence here feels like salvation to them, why they watch me with the careful attention usually reserved for weather patterns during drought season.
It still makes my skin feel tight, like I’m wearing a coat that doesn’t fit yet and playing a role I haven’t quite grown into.
The weight of their expectations sits heavy on my shoulders, and I find myself unconsciously straightening under the pressure, trying to look like someone worthy of their faith.
Maceo guides me to a booth near the back without making a show of it, his movements casual and natural.
His hand hovers near the small of my back without actually touching, which is somehow worse than if he’d just placed it there, because now I’m acutely aware of the space where his palm could be, of the warmth I imagine I can feel radiating from his skin even across the few inches of air between us.
We slide into the booth, the vinyl squeaking softly under our weight, and before I can even open my mouth to make a joke about ordering the biggest milkshake they have, someone approaches our table with a notepad clutched in one hand and a tired but genuinely kind smile lighting up her face.
She looks about my age, maybe a little younger, with the kind of presence that immediately draws your attention.
Light brown skin that seems to glow under the diner’s fluorescent lighting, hazel eyes that shift between green and gold depending on the angle, and a full figure that she carries with the confidence of someone who’s long since made peace with taking up space in the world.
Her hair is pulled up in an intricate braided bun, the kind of style that requires both skill and patience, every edge laid down with military precision.
Not a hair is out of place, and there’s something about that level of careful grooming that speaks of someone who’s learned to present a polished exterior even when the interior might be held together with determination and caffeine.
She has the kind of face that has seen grief and kept going anyway, the kind of quiet strength that shows itself in the set of her shoulders, the way she holds her head high, the alertness in her eyes even as she smiles.
“Hey,” she says, her voice brightening noticeably when her gaze lands on Maceo, the kind of warmth reserved for people you’re genuinely happy to see. “You’re back again? I swear you treat this place like it’s your personal kitchen.”
Maceo grins, the expression transforms his face into something boyish and charming. “Don’t act like you don’t love me.”
She snorts, a sound that’s equal parts amusement and exasperation. “I love your tips.”
Then she looks at me, and something in her expression changes, not suspicion, not judgment, just a sharpening of interest, like she’s finally getting to examine something she’s been curious about for a while.
“You must be Keisha,” she says, and the way she pronounces my name tells me it’s already made its rounds through the town’s gossip network.
I lift a hand in a small wave, suddenly feeling awkward under her direct attention. “Apparently I’m still headline news around here.”
Her smile widens, and it’s another genuine expression of welcome I’ve received that doesn’t feel weighted with expectations. “Beatrice. Most people call me Bea.”
“Keisha,” I reply, though she clearly already knows that. “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to Ruby Springs,” Bea says, and there’s a sincerity in her voice that feels earned rather than polite, like she actually means it and isn’t just going through the motions of small-town courtesy.
She glances between me and Maceo with a knowing look that makes me want to slide under the table and hide until whatever she’s thinking passes.
“You two ready to order, or do you need a minute to stare at the menu like it’s going to personally offend you? ”
“I already know what I want,” Maceo says easily, not even bothering to glance at the laminated menu tucked between the napkin dispenser and the small jar of sugar packets.
Bea’s eyebrows lift in mock surprise. “Of course you do. Let me guess, something that requires me to explain to the cook that yes, you really do want it half alive.”
He flashes her an innocent look that doesn’t fool anyone. “Cheeseburger. Rare.”
“Your poor mother,” Bea mutters under her breath, scribbling something on her notepad that probably includes warning notes for whoever’s working the grill today.
Maceo laughs, the sound rich and unashamed. “She raised a Wolf. This is on her.”
Bea shakes her head but can’t quite suppress her smile as she turns her attention back to me. “How about you? Anything jumping out at you, or do you need me to make recommendations?”
I stare at the menu even though I’m barely reading the words, my brain still trying to catch up to the fact that I’m sitting in a diner with a man who looks like he could break someone in half with his bare hands and somehow makes ordering lunch feel like the safest, most normal thing in the world.
The cognitive dissonance is making it hard to focus on the simple task of choosing food.
“Grilled cheese,” I finally decide, because comfort food seems like the appropriate theme for the day, and there’s something reassuringly simple about melted cheese and bread. “Curly fries, please. Oh, and coffee.”
Bea nods approvingly, like I’ve made an excellent choice. “You got it.” She starts to turn away, then hesitates, like she’s debating whether to say something else. When she speaks again, her tone shifts slightly, less server, more person to person.
“It’s good to see you out and about,” she says quietly, her voice dropping just enough that it feels like a private conversation despite being in a crowded diner. “The town’s been. . .watching. In that annoying Ruby Springs way.”
I huff a laugh, relieved to have my observations confirmed by someone who clearly understands the dynamics of this place. “So, I’m not imagining it, then.”