Chapter Seven Pancake Capital of the World #4
My Uncle Greg always jumped from job to job when I was younger.
He has degrees in both art and poultry science and somehow always found work, but I couldn’t tell you what he did.
After his divorce, he decided to work full-time at the diner.
Painting and chickens are for happy people, he once told me.
That was five years ago, though. Now, Uncle Greg is the happiest person I know.
He slides the cups onto the table, along with my usual pile of sugar packets. Before I can take a sip, my phone buzzes.
Griffin: It says I’m here (Sent with Car Assist)
Oh God.
I look out the window, expecting to see him like a poltergeist haunting me, but there’s only fogged glass.
Beverly: The diner is past the brick buildings.
Fran sighs wistfully from the bar. “Gosh, this brings me back.”
“What does?” Nana asks.
“Well, I remember when Bev came in here all the time.” She nods to me, pointing a finger. “Her and Beau. Always up to something.”
Beau again.
From behind the counter, my mom’s lips purse. “Well, they’re much older now. They’re not together.”
“Oh, don’t remind me!” Maria chimes in from her stool. “They were always attached at the hip, even outside of school. He wasn’t as much of a coffee drinker as you were, though.”
I shift in my seat, butt squeaking over the pleather. “Yeah, well…”
My phone buzzes.
Griffin: I see it now (Sent with Car Assist)
“You and Beau would have made such cute babies, though,” Maria says.
“Maria, please,” Momma says from behind the counter. “It’s been two years. She’s moving on.”
Moving.
Not moved.
Because I’m not dating.
My body tenses. My throat feels like it’s in pain.
“Oh,” Maria sighs. “But you are, aren’t you! You’re with that man. What’s his name…”
A pitch-black SUV rumbles around a winding road. The windows are heavily tinted. Is that level of tint even legal?
My heart catches.
Fran pouts. “I really thought you and Beau would make it.”
“Oh, me too,” Maria agrees. “But there’s that new musician…my goodness, what is his name?”
“You and Beau were really cute together.”
“You two, so help me—” Nana warns.
And somehow, some way, a sentence leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
“Well, Maria’s right. I’m with someone else now, so…it doesn’t really matter what Beau and I looked like.”
And of course, that’s when the jukebox ends. That awful span of time when the song changes over. And everyone—not just nosy Fran and Maria—hears me.
I close my eyes and groan.
Dad stands at the grill with his spatula held over three silver dollar–sized pancakes. Many pairs of eyes land on him and my mom in an unspoken question.
I open my mouth to say I’m sorry, but I don’t know why.
“Who?” Fran asks.
“Yes, who?” Nana says, thin eyebrows risen to her poofy red hair.
“I…well…you saw.” I point to Maria. “Right?”
There are a few confused looks, and for a moment I think I can save this whole situation. Didn’t they all see the article? Or was it just Maria? Maybe I could say I was joking. I shouldn’t have said anything. There was no reason. But if I heard Beau’s name one more time—
“Wait, who’s that out there?” Eddie asks. “I’ve never seen that car before.”
I twist in my seat right as the black SUV pulls into the parking spot next to mine.
My stomach plummets.
People are dropping their forks, setting down their coffees, pressing closer to the fogged-up windows with condensation leaking down the cracks.
“Kind of a nice car,” someone else observes, right in time for the driver door to open.
A single leather boot hits the gravel, followed by the hulking form of Griffin Harvey.
His long, wild hair falls from under a black baseball cap. He wears a jean jacket over a sweatshirt with the hood dangling over the collar. His aviator sunglasses fit on the bridge of his nose perfectly, like they were designed specifically for him.
“Oh my God, is that Griffin Harvey?” Fran asks.
“He’s here?” someone in another booth squeaks.
“Of course!” Maria shouts. “That’s him! They’re together!”
There’s a collective gasp.
Mistake, mistake, mistake.
Griffin closes the car door. His hair is particularly messy today, even more unruly once he removes his baseball hat and runs veined hands through the brown strands at his temples. He replaces his baseball cap and tips the bill lower.
“Well, that won’t do him a lick of good,” Nana murmurs to me. She’s right. The diner is already a hum of heated whispers.
Griffin strides to the back seat and pulls the door open, obscuring him from our view. The windows are completely blacked out, spotless and shiny like the rest of the car. It sticks out like a sore thumb among the well-worn pickup trucks and off-color sedans in the lot.
Finally, he reappears, and a little girl is swung onto his hip. She’s got his same brown hair. His same olive skin. But unlike the straight line of his lips, her mouth is an open pit, and the sound exploding out is nothing short of an ear-splitting wail.
There’s another all-at-once gasp.
“All right, we have business to discuss, everyone,” Nana quickly says. “Let’s not lose our heads.”
But heads are absolutely lost.