3. Dannica #3
Damn. My stomach dips, which is insane. I don’t know the first thing about him.
He could chew loudly or collect antique spoons.
And even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, I don’t want a relationship right now.
I can’t think of a relationship when I’m still deciding whether I’m going to stay here in Boudica Springs.
Wiping my hands on my apron, I head over to clear the table, trying not to look like I’m checking the door for signs of his return.
It was just banter, that’s all. A refreshing conversation that wasn’t about extra gravy or complaints about the price of eggs.
His plate is empty, coffee drained, and tucked neatly under the bill tray is a fifty. On a fifteen-dollar meal!
Crazy out-of-towner.
And I would absolutely tell him that, except I’m probably never going to see him again. Figures. Around here, the only things that stick are responsibilities.
As the last customer leaves a few hours later, I slide the final bills into the bank bag, the zipper rasping louder than it should in the quiet.
My mind drifts to Mom and Grandma’s… proposal.
Proposal might be generous. Hostage negotiation feels more accurate.
The worst part? Every packed table feels like another reason to stay.
And the terrifying part is that I’m not sure whether that makes me feel relieved or trapped.
I slam the register drawer closed and look up to find Shelly, Quadri, and Mary lined up on the other side of the pass, arms folded, faces expectant.
“Why are you all staring at me like I’m a Netflix special?”
“We’re waiting for the episode to drop,” Quadri says.
“Season one,” Mary adds. “Mysterious Stranger.”
“Spill.” Shelly points at me. “We need the tea.”
Quadri leans a hip on the counter. “You and Tall, Dark, and Rugged were practically sharing oxygen.”
If I get through this without rolling my eyes, I’m rewarding myself with a chocolate donut.
“I was serving him,” I say. “It’s called hospitality.”
“Uh-huh.” Mary starts unbraiding her hair, her attention fully focused on me. “What’s his name?”
“Need I remind you, you could’ve taken the table,” I point out. “But you suddenly developed stage fright.”
“You want good reviews, don’t you?” she shoots back. “I would’ve spilled coffee all over him.”
“Focus,” Shelly says, leaning in. “What is his name?”
“Actually…” I glance between them. “I don’t know.”
Three heads tilt in perfect unison.
“He didn’t say.”
A slow, collective inhale follows before Mary whispers. “Suspicious.”
“Or,” I counter, “he’s just passing through and doesn’t feel like handing out personal information.”
Imagine that. Boundaries.
Mary shakes her head. “What if he’s on the run?”
“He’s not on the run. People come to small towns to reset, or hide from an ex, or to find themselves.” I don’t add that some people stay because they never figured out how to leave. Or never tried to leave.
“Or because they escaped prison,” Shelly says. “He probably hasn’t had sex in years. Think about the tension.”
“That’s it,” Quadri mutters. “You’re banned from watching crime shows.”
“Fine. If he’s not a fugitive,” Shelly says, folding her arms, “what does he do?”
I roll my eyes. Goodbye, donut, we had a good run. “I don’t know.”
“See?” Mary throws up her hands. “Ex-con.”
“Good thing you’re not actually in journalism,” I say.
“Excuse me?” Mary straightens. “These are the questions you should be asking.”
This is getting ridiculous. I can’t help the headline that pops into my head.
SMALL-TOWN STAFF CONVINCE THEMSELVES STRANGER IS ESCAPED CONVICT.
“All right,” Shelly continues, “why is he here?”
I hesitate. “He said he likes small town stories.”
All three blink. What’s with these guys moving in sync today?
“So,” Quadri says slowly, “you talked to him longer than anyone else here combined, and all you learned is that he likes small towns?”
“He asked about the diner. The history and stuff.” I don’t mention our chat about my conflicted life plans. I sound way too defensive as it is.
“Classic casing-the-joint behavior,” Mary says. “If he makes a skin suit out of you, I’m telling the police I warned you.”
“You need help,” Quadri says. “Maybe try a romcom or two for a while.”
“We all saw sparks,” Shelly adds.
“If you saw sparks, call an electrician.” I wipe down the already-spotless counter. “He was just another customer.”
“Sure,” Mary says. “You were practically glowing.”
I sigh. “All right. Fryer’s not cleaned. Back to work.”
“You’re deflecting,” Quadri sings.
“He’s just another stranger passing through,” I snap. “We’re probably never going to see him again. So you can all stop writing your own home-brew soap opera and scrub something.”
They groan and disperse. But what Shelly said lingers. If he was an ex-con, that level of pent-up enthusiasm would be… interesting.
God.
I need to get laid. Unluckily for me, in small towns like this, one date and the guy wants to know how many kids you want. That’s a tricky question when you don’t even know what you want to do with your life next week.