1. Dannica #4
By the time I’ve submitted the order and locked up, a headache is building behind my eyes.
I glare at my bike, daring it to nail me in the shin again like it did this morning, then swing a leg over.
Pity we live in a town where nothing ever happens.
I don’t think I’d even mind if the stupid thing got stolen tonight.
Jerk.
I’m home in less than ten minutes. When I open the front door, I can almost hear the hiss of hot water calling my name.
Usually, I’d cut through the house and disappear through the in-law suite’s private entrance.
Steam, silence and ten minutes of not thinking.
That thought comes to a screeching halt when I see Mom and Grandma sitting at the dining room table. Waiting.
I stifle a groan. Not tonight.
I suss them out. They aren’t angry. They’re… composed. I think that’s worse. I drop my bag and start tugging out my ponytail. “Look, I know I messed up. But it’s not like I flipped you off and decided to sleep in. My phone genuinely didn’t charge.”
Shit! That sounded pissy.
Grandma pats the empty seat beside her and Mom doesn’t say anything. My stomach drops.
Double shit. This isn’t about being late.
“Honey, this isn’t about you being late,” Mom says, confirming my suspicions.
Her deep blue eyes train on me. “We’re proud of you.
You always give two hundred percent. We see how much you put into the diner.
The restaurant has always been owned and run equally by your grandma, me, and Aunt Grace.
But there’s always been a lead.” She dusts imaginary crumbs off the yellow tablecloth.
“We’ve been watching you these past six months, and we believe you’re ready. ”
My stomach drops. I know what she’s talking about, yet I still ask. “For what?”
“To step into that role. To take the lead on the diner.”
Warmth, unexpected but welcome, floods through me.
They trust me. Not just Mom, but Grandma too.
The woman who can spot a missing salt shaker from across the room, who knows a gravy is about to split by smell alone, thinks I’m ready to carry the thing she spent a lifetime building.
I should feel honored, and the truth is, I do.
That’s what makes this so much worse. Because if this were easy to dismiss, I could just say no and move on.
But it isn’t. Part of me is deeply, ridiculously proud that Grandma sees me this way.
That she believes I’m capable of stepping into her shoes one day.
And that’s the problem.
Their faith in me makes it harder to tell them I might want something else.
“The next Grandma?” I shake my head. “Grandma’s still very much alive and running the place. We don’t need another Grandma.”
Panic rises fast and sharp because I know what they’re really saying. This isn’t a promotion. It’s a future in a life I already know by heart. The stupid thing is, part of me wants it.
I love the place. I love the regulars. I love knowing Mr. Davenport’s order before he sits down, and which truckers will ask for extra coffee before they’ve even taken off their jackets. I love that Grandma built something people depend on, and I love being part of it.
But if I say yes, what happens to the girl who was supposed to leave? What happens to the notebooks full of story ideas and the dream I’ve had since I was twelve? What happens to the version of me who was going to chase stories and see the world?
And if I say no?
If I walk away from all of this and chase journalism, what if I fail? What if I leave behind the people I love only to discover I was never good enough to make it as a reporter in the first place? What if Grandma is right about me, and I’m wrong about myself? Or worse, what if I’m right?
My fingers twist into the hem of my shirt, knuckles whitening as I scan the table for a glass of water. Grandma gets up without a word and disappears into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a cold bottle of water, which she sets on a coaster in front of me.
“Dannica,” she says softly, “we know you can do this.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Just think about it. For me.”
Pack your bags, Dannica. You’re going on a guilt trip.
I stand, the heavy oak chair scraping across the wooden floors and grating on my over-sensitized sensory system.
“I’m beat. I should probably turn in. Don’t want to be late again tomorrow.” My pulse is loud in my ears, and heat floods my body. I wrap my fingers tight around the plastic bottle. The room gets smaller and smaller with every second I look at their expectant faces. “G…good night.”
“Good night, honey,” Mom says.
“You aren’t as trapped as you think you are, child,” Grandma states, her smile warm.
I force myself to walk out of the room instead of running, controlling the urge to race outside so I can fill my lungs with the chilled air. I enter my in-law suite and rush to my bedroom. Closing the door gently, I lean against the frame, dragging in huge gulps of air.
I keep telling myself this is a compliment. They mean well.
Then why do I feel like someone has locked the door and thrown away the key?