Chapter 4
“Welcome back to Morning Buzz!“ Billy’s chipper voice saturates the cabin of my car as I pull into the road leading to Granny Jo’s Diner, the growls emitting from my abdomen having upgraded from quiet complaints to a full-scale rant.
“As promised,” Billy continues, his voice so peppy it borders on criminal for this early an hour, “we’ve got the scoop on the latest Logan Humphries scandal. And folks, this one’s a doozy.”
Ah, yes . . . the natural order of things. The sun rises in the east, the Earth rotates counterclockwise along its axis, and Logan Humphries does something outrageous. We can all sleep peacefully knowing the world is as it should be.
“That’s right,” adds Nelly, his equally spirited co-host whose tone of voice suggests she’s a morning person, unlike me.
We wouldn’t get along. “Our bad boy of pop is at it again! This time, the drama involves his record label. Logan was reportedly displaying an outburst of anger after a meeting with his manager. Witnesses say he was shouting about creative freedom and even accused the label of holding him back. Oh—and he even knocked over some flowerpots on his way out. Very mature, huh?”
Go figure. Seems like the elementary school menace has graduated from pouring glue in hair to assaulting innocent vegetation. He’s sure made progress.
Billy’s laugh is so obnoxious it draws a smile from my lips.
I bet it was a contributing factor, if not the determinant one, in landing him the radio gig.
“Classic Logan,” he says. “Always making a scene. Rumor has it all of it started because he refused to collaborate with Victoria Delacroix, the label’s golden girl.
Sounds like someone’s got an ego the size of a hot air balloon. ”
I scoff. So the animal-crackers-stealing Logan is as insufferable as ever. If I remember correctly, he even denied it with cookie crumbs still plastered on his face.
“Also,” Nelly says, her voice now dramatic enough for a soap opera, “for anyone still wondering whether Logan is in a relationship with Victoria Delacroix, this should put it to rest. The singers are not together, according to sources.”
Thank goodness for this crucial bit information. I’ve been losing sleep wondering about Logan Humphries’ relationship status—said absolutely no one in the history of ever.
“Sounds like someone’s still an attention-seeking jerk,” I mutter to myself, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
“Right you are!” Billy echoes my sentiment. “The big question is whether Logan’s antics are going to cost him. How much longer can he pull stunts like this before the label drops him?”
I click my tongue as Granny Jo’s Diner comes into view, its red neon sign flickering cheerfully on the rooftop.
So Maplewood Springs’ golden boy is still stirring up trouble everywhere he goes.
Fame might’ve put him on a billboard, but it clearly hadn’t humbled him.
Some people never change, which might explain why I still hold a grudge against him.
But in my defense, I had to walk around with uneven hair for months.
After parking, I make my way toward the diner’s entrance.
That’s when I notice a yellow Chevy Camaro taking up two parking spaces on the side of the building, gleaming like candy in the morning sun.
Funny, I don’t remember anyone in town driving a car like this.
Pickups are the norm around here, usually covered in mud and accompanied by at least one hunting bumper sticker.
And who takes up two parking spots like that? Must be an inconsiderate tourist.
The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and the air inside, thick with buttery pastries and freshly brewed coffee, envelops me like a warm blanket, and I breathe it in fully.
Granny Jo’s is the town’s hot spot as evidenced by the lively chatter of its regulars.
I’m so ready to join the fray and throw myself at the altar of sugary goodness.
My stomach grumbles like a dog in anticipatory agreement, loud enough that I glance around to make sure no one heard it.
“Maisie, dear!” Granny Jo calls from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her cherry-printed apron.
The sight of her immediately soothes my soul, like aloe vera on a sunburn.
Her silver hair is wrapped into a tight bun, and the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepen when she smiles, which is often.
Granny Jo has only gotten more wonderful with age.
I offer a tired smile as I step closer. “Morning, Granny Jo. Please tell me you have something that can put to rest the hunger monster inside me before it devours me.
“The usual?” She doesn’t even blink at my dramatics.
“Yes, please. And I’ll take a little extra for the kids.” My first graders get hangry with the ferocity of Vikings if snack time is delayed by even thirty seconds.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says with a twinkle in her eye that makes me wonder if she somehow knew that I was coming, then she gives me a knowing smile and disappears into the kitchen, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the checkerboard tiles.
I take a moment to glance around. Most of the tables are filled with the usual suspects—Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins sharing a crossword puzzle at the table by the door, Sheriff Huxley sipping coffee with a stack full of Granny Jo’s famous pancakes in front of him that would impress Mount Everest, the Spivey twins loudly debating which gas station has the best beef jerky, and Mr. Collins, the elderly gentleman whom I can’t look in the eye because every time I do I find myself on the receiving end of a creepy wink.
The soundtrack of small-town America, breakfast edition.
But there’s also a stranger I haven’t seen before—a man sitting alone at the far booth, hunched over a plate of bagels, devouring them like he’s in a timed eating challenge.
He wears a red Maplewood Springs Mudcats baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and—odd choice—aviator sunglasses.
Who wears sunglasses indoors? Maybe he’s had Lasik.
Or maybe he’s trying to make himself look cool not realizing he’s failing miserably.
The Clark Kent disguise isn’t exactly subtle in a town where everybody knows the spoons of sugars everyone else takes in their coffee.
Whoever he is, he’s stuffing his cheeks full of bagels like a chipmunk, making my stomach rumble with envy. I better look away before I lose all self-control and tackle him for his breakfast. The headline “Local Teacher Arrested for Bagel Assault” would not look good on my performance review.
I slide into a booth by the window and pull out my planner, flipping to today’s lesson plan.
Music and singing first (low chaos), then math with candy corn (high chaos), followed by a spring-themed read-aloud and crafts (dangerously moderate chaos, depending on glitter usage).
First graders have two speeds: adorable chaos gremlins and snack-time philosophers. I adore them.
Granny Jo returns with a plate of bagels crowned with generous dollops of cream cheese, plus a brown paper bag packed with extras. She sets everything down with a flourish. “Here you go, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Granny Jo.” I sink my teeth into the first warm, pillowy bite and practically taste heaven. The buttery perfection, the cream cheese, the tangy, rich, and smoother than any relationship I’d ever had flavor blasts away all my worries.
Granny Jo scoots into the seat across from me, her hands folded neatly. “So, how’ve you been holding up?”
Aside from my sister, she is the only person in town who knows the truth behind my breakup.
One night after I’d moved back in with Mom and Dad, I’d shown up at the diner five minutes before closing, mascara streaked and clutching a box of tissues.
She’d brewed me tea and listened—really listened—without once telling me I was overreacting or that everything will be all right . . . because it wasn’t at the time.
I take another bite with a smile. “Oh, you know. Just living the dream. Eating my feelings away one bagel at a time.”
Granny Jo chuckles, her features softening as she reaches across the table to pat my hand. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Maisie. Just remember that.”
I shrug, cheeks warm. “I’m fine, really. Besides, there’s nothing your bagel and coffee can’t fix.”
She stands, smoothing her apron. “Well, if anyone can turn lemons into sweet lemonade, it’s you, dear.”
As Granny Jo shuffles back to the kitchen, I lean back in my seat and dig into my comfort food. The taste is enough to almost take a girl off an emotional rollercoaster. Almost.
I’m mid-chew, blissfully lost in cream cheese and denial, when the bell above the diner door chimes again.
My eyes shoot up and I freeze, mouth hanging open as my brain flatlines. The half-masticated bagel in my mouth suddenly feels like cement.
Of all people to run into, why does it have to be them?
Andy and Lindsey. Together. Holding hands. Looking like they stepped straight out of a Hallmark movie where the plot is all about flaunting your relationship in front of your ex.
The half-chewed mass of bagel threatens to become a choking hazard as my throat closes up faster than an erratic clam.
I hunker down in the booth like a spy on a mission, praying that I might spontaneously develop invisibility powers.
I swallow hard and begin to plan my escape, hopefully before they notice me.
I subtly slide lower in my seat, peering through the artificial fronds of the diner’s fake Ficus plant. If only it would magically grow six feet taller and create an impenetrable green barrier between me and my least favorite duo on planet Earth.
What is it that Chrissy used to say? She’d rather live on Mars than attend high school. It’s moments like these that now make me wish for the same.