LARK
LARK
The bell above the front door jingles again, and I don’t even look up.
My hands are busy, mind half-tuned to the register and half-tracking the vinyl crackling softly behind me.
I felt like hearing something real this morning—something with a little soul to it—so I threw on a Sam Cooke record instead of the usual radio.
God, I missed this.
The Bluebell has its heartbeat back, every booth full, the counter lined with regulars and a few tourists we haven’t scared off yet. The windows are still fogged in the corners from the morning rush, string lights flickering above them. I feel home.
Finn and Josie are weaving through tables with plates balanced on their arms like pros, and Opal’s shouting something unintelligible from the kitchen, probably about a missing order of sausage.
I should go check, but I’m pinned to the counter with a smile that won’t leave my face.
My feet hurt. My shoulders ache. I think my left thumb might be permanently stained from Sharpie. I’ve never been happier.
The new suppliers finally came through last week. They’re not ideal—one needs invoices submitted by fax, which makes me feel like I’m living in 1985, and the other refuses to deliver on Sundays—but it’s workable. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine again .
A soft cough pulls my focus, and I glance up to find Mr. Weller leaning across the counter, his elbows planted, coffee mug in hand. He’s got a grin tugging at one side of his mouth like he’s trying not to look too pleased with himself.
“Gotta say, Lark,” he says, tilting his mug, “it’s damn good to have this place open again. You’ve been missed.”
I laugh, reaching for the coffeepot to top him off. “Thanks, Tom. Rosie’s cafe treated you just fine while we were out, though, didn’t it?”
He leans in a little, voice dropping like he’s telling me a secret. “Rosie’s doesn’t butter the pancakes right or add chocolate chips. And the bacon?” He grimaces. “Not even a little unhinged. Practically normal. Where’s the fun in that?”
I shake my head, biting back another laugh. “So you missed our unhinged bacon.”
“Damn right I did.” He lifts his mug in a mock toast. “To chaotic bacon.”
I lift my own invisible glass and clink it with his.
The door swings open in a flurry of movement—one frazzled mom wrangling two kids under the age of six, one of whom is already red-faced and barreling toward the counter like her life depends on it.
She’s got tangled curls and sneakers that light up when she runs, and her cheeks are flushed with determination.
“Can I have an ice cream cone?” she gasps out, gripping the counter like she just crossed a finish line.
The mom, juggling a squirming toddler on one hip and a diaper bag the size of Montana, calls after her without looking. “You need to eat real food first, Ava!”
Ava plants her feet. “But I want ice cream!”
The mom sighs, swiping her hair off her forehead and shifting the toddler to the other hip. “You know what? Fine. It’s not worth the fight. Give her the cone.”
I laugh, already reaching for the scooper. “We’ve all been there.”
Then I lean down and snag a lollipop from the jar we keep under the counter.
Alice used to do this for crying babies and squirmy toddlers—called it her peace offering.
She said it worked nine times out of ten.
I hold it out to the little boy, who’s got tears shining in his eyes and a tight grip on his mom’s shirt.
“Hey, bud,” I say gently, “you want a lollipop?”
He freezes, eyes darting from the candy to my face like he can’t believe his luck. Then he nods once, solemn and reverent, before reaching out with sticky fingers.
“You’re a saint,” the mom mutters, dragging a chair out with one foot and dropping her bag onto it like it personally offended her.
I just smile and look back to the little girl. “Alright, Ava. What’s your favorite flavor?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Strawberry.”
I grin. “That’s my favorite too.”
She giggles like I just told her a secret, bouncing on her heels while I grab a cone.
I scoop the ice cream and hand it over carefully, the cone tipping slightly before her tiny fingers latch around it like it’s a winning lottery ticket. She grins, already licking, a smear of ice cream hitting her cheek in less than ten seconds.
Her mom steps up to the counter with a wallet already halfway open and the toddler now balanced on her hip like a sack of potatoes. There’s exhaustion in her eyes, but something softer, too—relief, maybe. A little peace in the middle of the chaos.
“We just needed to get out of the house,” she says, card in hand, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “I didn’t even care where we went, I just needed four walls that weren’t mine.”
I swipe her card and nod, smiling. “I remember those days.”
Her brow lifts, hopeful. “Tell me it gets easier.”
I let out a laugh. “Sure. If by easier, you mean they start eating everything in your fridge and developing very strong opinions about socks. Apparently there’s cool socks now.”
She snorts, shaking her head as the toddler finally settles, sucking contentedly on the now very sticky lollipop. “That sounds…great.”
“It is,” I say, sliding her receipt across the counter. “It’s exhausting. It’s hilarious. It’s wild. But somehow, you miss every version of them the second it’s gone.”
She softens, cradling her toddler a little tighter as she slips her card back into her wallet. “I believe that,” she murmurs. “I already look at them and can’t believe they’re not babies anymore. It’s like I blinked and everything changed.”
I nod, something tugging behind my ribs. “Same with mine. He’s twelve now. I swear he was just learning how to hold a spoon yesterday.”
She smiles, eyes crinkling. “Thanks for talking. It’s nice to have a conversation with someone who doesn’t scream at me every five minutes.”
“Anytime,” I say, and I mean it. I watch as she guides her kids to a booth in the far corner, settling in with the ease of a mom who knows exactly how to keep one child busy with a cone and the other distracted with a napkin and a straw.
Then I smell her before I see her.
Dawn.
She slides up to the counter, the scent of stale smoke trailing behind her like a shadow. She’s smiling, that same familiar smile I’ve seen for years—just the right mix of charm and snark, like she’s about to gossip or confess to something mildly criminal, and you’ll love her for it anyway.
“Well, look at you,” she says, adjusting her apron as she leans in a little too close to the register. “Running this place like a well-oiled machine up here all by yourself. Makes me almost feel bad for taking a smoke break.”
I manage a tight smile, hoping it doesn’t tremble at the edges. “You’re allowed your break, Dawn.”
She smirks, tapping the counter with her nails. “Tell that to Opal. She’s been throwing tongs like ninja stars back there.”
I almost laugh. Almost. It’s so typically her—casual, a little offhanded, totally unbothered. She has no idea I know. That I’ve been walking around for days trying to reconcile the woman who used to sneak me marshmallows as a kid with someone capable of burning my life down for a paycheck.
I nod along, pretending I’m still just Lark, and she’s still just Dawn, but the disbelief hasn’t worn off yet. I keep searching her face for something different—guilt, maybe, or hesitation—but all I get is smoke and that same worn-in comfortability.
Dawn leans her hip against the counter, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Where’s that boy of yours today?”
“Fishing,” I say, smoothing my hands over the front of my apron. “With Boone. They’ve been going a lot lately.”
Her laugh bubbles up immediately. “Boone Wilding. That boy’s always had a thing for fishin’. Remember when he caught that massive cutthroat? Had to have been at least twenty inches. Hauled it in like he was God’s gift to the creek and strutted in here soaking wet, holding that thing like a trophy.”
I do remember. All too well.
I was twelve, maybe. Boone had grass stains on both knees and dirt smudged across his face, a trout nearly the size of his forearm swinging from a string. He thought it was hilarious to chase me around, waving the thing in my face like I’d be impressed instead of horrified.
I wrinkle my nose at the memory. “He wouldn’t stop trying to slap me with it.”
“He brought it straight to Opal,” Dawn says, still chuckling. “Told her she had to fry it up special.”
From the back, Opal’s voice calls out, dry as always. “To be fair, that was a damn impressive catch for a boy his age.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, real and involuntary. “He tried to eat it with a handful of cold baked beans and a Sprite. Like that was fine dining.”
Dawn throws her head back, cackling like she’s just an old friend standing in my diner, not someone I now have to question down to her bones.
The door jingles.
That bell usually means something simple—someone hungry, someone familiar. Now, it’s a warning shot. A gut-pull.
Wendell Tate steps inside, the sun catching on the silver buckle of his belt, his Stetson casting a shadow over his eyes. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets like he’s got nothing but time. My heart stutters—just for a second. Then I square my shoulders, plant my feet.
No.
I will not shrink for him.
I’m not some timid girl he can rattle with a smug look.
I’m a mother. I’ve pushed eight pounds of screaming child into the world.
I’ve worked double shifts while sleep-deprived, memorized the names of Pokémon I don’t give a flying fuck about, paid bills late, been to more baseball games than I can count and lied to my son’s face about how fine everything was. I can handle Wendell Tate.
“Morning,” he says, slipping off his hat like he’s a damn gentleman. “Good to see the Bluebell’s back open.”