1. Dannica #2
Okay, Dannica. Rein it in. It’s not like you’re heading to death row. She’s just an ordinary person. A mean, nasty, soul-sucking person, but a person, nonetheless.
I reach the table and start pouring her coffee. “Morning, Beverly. How are you today?”
She doesn’t answer, watching the coffee rise like she’s sure I’m going to do her out of a drop.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate”—she eventually meets my gaze—“to discuss… intimate matters at the entrance of a family establishment.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“You and your band of merry waitresses,” she continues, adjusting her bracelets. “There are standards. Your grandmother worked very hard to build them—albeit not the way I would choose.” She looks around the diner like it’s a dive bar.
Of course she says that. Beverly McNaire hasn’t had a kind word to say about the diner for as long as I can remember.
The coffee’s too weak. The toast’s too brown.
The booths are outdated. And yet she’s here every single Sunday at eight fifteen sharp, like clockwork, judging us between bites of French toast.
I keep my hand steady on the pot.
“I understand,” I say evenly. “I apologize.”
I top off her cup and step back, smiling the kind of smile that belongs on someone who absolutely did not just get lectured before nine in the morning.
As I pass the counter, a gnarled hand catches the end of my ponytail and gives it a gentle tug. I don’t even have to turn to see who it is. He’s been pulling my hair in silent encouragement since I was thirteen years old.
I glance back anyway. Mr. Ashley Davenport. At seventy-four, he’s not our oldest patron by a long shot, but he’s often the sharpest in the room. He misses very little. I guess toiling the land as a farmer all the years honed his instincts.
“Forget her,” he mutters. “She’s just got a stick up her ass.”
I give him a grateful smile and lean in. “Thanks.”
“Don’t know why you’re whispering,” he grumbles. “She could use being knocked down a peg or two.”
He purses his lips, which would look intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that he has, once again, no teeth in his mouth. I glance toward Beverly, but she’s tapping away on her phone, blissfully unaware of the conversation taking place.
“Just because her daughter ‘made it out’”—he throws up crooked air quotes—“doesn’t mean she farts Chanel No. 5.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. I do my best to make it sound convincing even as something ugly shifts in my belly. Something hot and petty. It’s the part of me I hate, the part that keeps score.
Peyton McNaire leaving Boudica Springs isn’t ancient history. It’s a bruise I keep pressing just to make sure it still hurts. And it does. I should be glad she’s gone. She was the school bully, so getting rid of her toxic energy should bring me peace.
Peyton had never shoved anyone into lockers or pulled their hair—that might have been easier to survive. Instead, she looked through people, like they weren’t worth the effort of seeing. Especially me. I spent most of high school trying to disappear before she could make me feel invisible.
Maybe that’s why I started writing headlines. At first, they were just stupid little observations I scribbled in my notebook during class.
CAFETERIA TATER TOT SUPPLY DECIMATED. LOCAL TEEN DENIES INVOLVEMENT.
MATH TEACHER DECLARES WAR ON FUN. STUDENTS DEVASTATED.
Anything that made me laugh. Anything that made me feel like the people around me mattered.
Before long, I was carrying a notebook everywhere, filling pages with observations, snippets of conversations, and little details nobody else seemed to notice.
Like how Mr. Davenport always gave the last bite of his pie to whatever dog happened to be hanging around.
Or the way Shelly chewed the inside of her cheek when she was worried.
Or how Grandma remembered everyone’s birthday without ever writing it down.
Everyone had a story.
Slowly, journalism stopped being an idea and became a dream.
Not because I wanted fame, but because I liked seeing people.
And maybe, if I was being completely honest, I liked the idea of being seen too.
I didn’t want to be the center of attention, but I was tired of feeling like I existed in the background of everyone else’s lives.
Being invisible was safe, but it was a lonely existence.
If someone really saw me—saw who I was beneath the awkwardness and the mistakes—maybe I’d finally feel like I mattered.
Which is also why I’m envious Peyton got out. Because it makes karma seem all wrong. Like it doesn’t touch those who deserve it the most and is rather random.
I clear my throat and change the subject. “Lost your teeth again, I see?”
He shakes his head. “I swear someone slips in at night and hides them. I’m too organized for this nonsense.”
He defends himself like a man who believes his own lies.
“You want me to start labeling things?” I ask with a smile.
“Careful,” he says. “I know where you work.”
“Good, then you know I control the refills.”
His veiny hands clutch his heart in mock pain. “Argh, hitting a man where it hurts.”
“Inherited my grandma’s spirit.”
We both glance over to where she’s talking to one of our regulars. Just seeing her there, weathered face reinforcing her wisdom, braid draped over one shoulder, silver cuffs catching the light, reminds me exactly where that spirit comes from.
Shelly makes her way over, nudging her glasses up her nose. “You misplace the teeth again, Mr. Davenport?”
“You didn’t leave them in your walker, did you? I saw you tuck them in there yesterday after your pie,” I say, suddenly remembering.
He scratches his head. “Could be.”
“I’d give it a look if I were you,” Shelly chimes in. “Otherwise it’s scrambled eggs for you, and today’s special is steak pie.” She points at the framed blackboard listing our daily specials.
I’ve never seen him move that fast. Mr. Davenport is off the leather stool and rummaging through the basket attached to the underside of his walker before either of us can offer to help.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I turn to see a burly trucker with a red beard and a faded blue cap waving from just inside the door.
I hurry over. “Can I help you?”
“Mind giving me directions to the local tire shop?” he asks. “Got me a flat. And turns out my spare’s flat too.”
“No problem.” I smile and walk him through the turns, my hands moving animatedly.
I know these streets better than anyone.
I’ve never really left them, not properly, not in the way people mean when they say they got out.
I know every shortcut, every person who’ll walk through that diner door before they even do it.
Sometimes I wonder how many stories I’ve collected over the years and never told.
Sometimes that feels like comfort; other times it feels like a life sentence.
Around three o’clock, there’s a lull in the crowd, and I head to the kitchen.
I find Shelly there, drinking a cup of tea, and I’m reminded of the conversation about the toys and her comment about batteries not disappearing when things get complicated.
I walk over, trying not to look like I’m about to ask her anything deep and meaningful.
Shelly has a tendency to act like a caged animal when things get serious.
“Hey, you.”
“Hey, you, yourself,” she says. “What an afternoon, huh?”
“Yeah, but I kinda expected that since my day started off with a bang.”
“What happened anyway? You’re usually so great with time management.” She drains her mug while she waits for my answer.
“Charger betrayed me.”
She nods. “Been there.”
“I think I’m just so exhausted that I’m doing things half asleep.”
“Yeah, you’re about six seconds away from burnout. And I miss you. We hardly see you anymore. Outside of here, that is.”
The guilt hits hard, stacking on top of everything else already sitting on my chest. “I know I haven’t been the best friend lately.”
She turns to me immediately. “Stop it. That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying you’ve missed girls’ night so many times recently. We worry about you.”
“I know, I know. I just have to get through the harvest festival, then things will slow down.” I pause, studying her. “But let’s not talk about me. How are you?”
Shelly turns to the sink and rinses her mug. Her movements are a little too sharp, a little too precise. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t say you’re fine. You’ll just make me feel like an even worse friend. I noticed your comment this morning.”
“Ugh.” She huffs out a breath. “I should zip my lips.”
“It’s okay to be vulnerable, you know?”
“Yeah,” she says dryly, “because you do it so well.”
I ignore her and get to the real point of the conversation. “He was a dick.”
“He was.”
“He didn’t deserve you.”
“I know.”
There’s a long beat while the water continues to run, and Shelly doesn’t turn it off. I don’t make a move to either. I don’t want to move a muscle in case I break the spell.
“And in case you’re wondering,” she adds, her voice going a little flatter, “he didn’t just wake up one day and decide I wasn’t fun anymore.”
My chest tightens. “Shelly?—”
“Apparently, when my dad got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, that was his cue to panic about the future.”
I step closer.
“He said he didn’t want to spend his life worrying about being saddled with a wife who might not remember his name one day.” She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Can you believe that? One Google search, and suddenly I’m a liability.”
“Jesus, Shel.”
“Yeah.” She finally turns off the faucet. “So. There goes a year and a half of my life. Poof.”
My arms are around her before I even think about it. “I’m sorry.”
She leans into me for half a second—just half—before she pulls back, already rebuilding the walls.
“Anyway,” she says, forcing brightness back into her voice, “like I said, on the bright side, batteries really don’t leave you for hypothetical future brain deterioration.”
“I’m a dick.”
She frowns. “Why? Are you also planning on abandoning me?”
“Well, I have already, haven’t I?”