5. Dannica #2
“That I’m hotter than everyone else.”
Okayyy.
Mr. Davenport snorts into his coffee at the counter. “Nope.”
“They’ll hear you,” I whisper.
He lifts his mug in salute, entirely unrepentant.
By mid-afternoon, the place is strung with more decorations than it was yesterday.
I’m not entirely sure when that happened.
Bunting hangs a little lower over the windows.
Carved wooden pumpkins are stacked by the door, which definitely weren’t there this morning.
Tennyson must’ve come through again. That man decorates like he’s in a race against time itself.
“Did he sleep here?” I mutter, adjusting one of the strings that’s threatening to decapitate anyone taller than six feet.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Llewellen says. “He slept in the storage room during the Harvest of ’98.”
“Why?” I can’t think of anything worse.
“Commitment.”
“That’s not commitment,” I say. “That’s concerning.”
He shrugs. “Results speak for themselves.”
I glance around. He’s not wrong. The place looks amazing, all warm and inviting.
Worth stopping for, worth coming back to.
Would it be so bad to stay and run this place?
No sooner has the thought flitted through my mind than the familiar feeling sinks in my stomach.
God, why can’t I just make up my damn mind already?
My eyes flick to the door before I can stop them.
God, I need to get a grip.
“Dannica.” Shelly’s voice cuts through my spiral like a well-aimed axe. I turn. She’s watching me intently.
“What?” I ask, a little too quickly.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just enough to say she’s thinking. Miraculously, she lets it go. “Table six wants extra gravy.”
Relief floods me so fast, it’s embarrassing. “On it.”
I grab the gravy boat and move before she can change her mind and circle back. Because she will; they all will eventually. They always do.
By the end of the shift, my patience is hanging by a thread, and the bell over the door has rung enough times to permanently rewire my brain.
I don’t even notice I’m doing it anymore: the glance, the hope, the immediate disappointment.
It’s become as automatic as breathing or blinking. Or self-sabotage.
“Okay, that’s it,” Quadri says, clapping her hands once. “We survived another day. Barely.”
“Speak for yourself,” Shelly says. “I thrived.”
“You dropped an entire tray of milkshakes.”
“I maintain that it was a tactical decision.”
“That was gravity.”
“Agree to disagree.”
I lean against the counter, letting their conversation wash over me, familiar and grounding in a way nothing else is.
This place and these people… it’s not a bad life.
I just wish I could look to the future and see which version of myself is happier.
I exhale slowly, pushing off the counter and grabbing a cloth.
“Let’s close up before someone decides they need a midnight burger.”
“Don’t manifest that,” Mary mutters.
The bell jingles.
Too late.
Every single one of us freezes. I hate that my heart actually skips. Just for a second. I especially dislike the hope. Ugh, this is stupid.
And then?—
Beverly.
Of course it’s Beverly.
“Fucking Beverly. Fucking, fucking, fucking Beverly.”
I mutter it like a chant, turning the hot water faucet as far as it will go and stepping under the spray. The scalding water pounds against my shoulders as I grab my bottle of shampoo and pray the heat will soothe my tired muscles and rinse away the rage.
The diner closed hours ago. Everyone else is already home, but I just got in and I am bone weary.
I’m also convinced Beverly clogged that toilet on purpose just to get back at me. The woman knows she’s lactose intolerant, yet she still ordered the damn chicken alfredo. She clogged the toilet so badly it turned into a full-on duel to the death between me and the plunger.
I’ve been plotting revenge ever since I managed to unclog it, but nothing has felt satisfying enough.
Letting the air out of her car tires? No. I’m not that kind of person.
Toilet-papering her house? Show her another use for toilet paper? Yeah… that would’ve been fun. However, it’s a missed opportunity.
I step out of the shower and towel off, feeling a lot cleaner than I did when I stepped in. Which is impressive considering I unclogged that toilet in something that could only be described as a hazmat-level apron.
Once my hair is dry, I flop onto the bed and finally check my phone for the first time today.
My heart races when I see a notification from my secret email account, the one I set up so I could submit articles as a real journalist. My thumb hovers over the screen, like the email might somehow leap out and bite me. I blow out a breath. It’s a posting for an internship in Huddersfield.
Which just happens to be the same city Peyton is apparently so wildly successful in. Of course it is. I don’t care. Or do I? No, I don’t. Not really.
I open the listing and scan the requirements. Mid-level news publication. East side of the city. It’s a stepping stone. Exactly the kind of stepping stone I’ve always told myself I’d take if the chance ever came.
Excitement bubbles in my chest, then doubt barges in like it owns the place.
Which it does at this point in time. My finger hovers over the Apply button.
Can I do this? Am I brave enough? It could mean a completely different life.
And even if I end up unclogging toilets there too, at least it would be a step up. A step in the right direction.
I shoot a glance at the clock.
11:11 p.m.
The excuses fly through my mind. I don’t have time for this. The diner needs me. Grandma needs me. There are bills to pay, shifts to cover, and a hundred perfectly reasonable reasons why applying for a job in the city is a terrible idea.
The problem is I know they’re excuses. Because if someone handed me my dream job tomorrow and guaranteed I couldn’t fail, I’d be packed before sunrise. Shit and dammit, it’s not my schedule holding me back. It’s me.
The familiar fear of leaving and not being good enough feels like lead in my stomach.
The same thought enters my mind whenever something like this comes up. What if I spend years chasing this dream only to find out Boudica Springs is as far as I was ever going to get? What if everyone else can already see that and I’m the last one to figure it out?
The disappointment settles in my chest, and I shove it into the same mental drawer where I’ve been storing it for years. It’s filled with abandoned applications, missed opportunities, and all the reasons I’ve convinced myself staying put is the sensible choice.
The drawer is getting crowded.
I push off the bed and lift my chin. I need to stop this. I’m lucky. I know that. Plenty of people would kill for what I have.
So why does wanting more feel like I’m betraying my mother and grandmother? But also, why does it feel like I’m betraying myself by not taking these opportunities?
Those thoughts sting enough that I shove them away.
The diner opens at six, and there will be coffee to pour, pancakes to flip, and customers to serve.
Things I know how to do and can’t fail at.
I open my laptop and log into my email, staring at it for too long before I open the application.
My stomach clenches. It’s ridiculous, really.
I’m not being asked to perform surgery or defuse a bomb.
I’m looking at a form. I scroll slowly through the first section. Name. Address. Education. Easy stuff.
Then I reach the part that matters.
Why do you want this position?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Why do I want it?
Because I love stories. Because I love finding the tiny moments people overlook.
Because everyone has a story worth telling.
Because I spent half my life writing headlines for things that weren’t news and the other half interviewing unsuspecting relatives about their opinions on mashed potatoes.
A smile tugs at my mouth as I stare at the cursor. It’s blinking, waiting. Maybe judging.
Still, I don’t type a single word. My brain skips straight past the possibility of rejection and lands on the thing that’s been plaguing me.
What if I get it? The thought puts a heavy pressure against my chest.
What if they offer me the job? What happens to Grandma?
To Mom? To the diner? What happens to the life I’ve spent years building here?
It’s one thing to dream about something from a safe distance, but it’s another thing entirely when that dream starts looking back at you and asking what you’re prepared to sacrifice.
Straightening, I rub my eyes. The problem isn’t that I don’t want it. It’s that I do.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it. A tiny apartment somewhere. Deadlines. Interviews. Chasing stories instead of coffee orders. Building something that’s mine because I chose it, not because I inherited it.
“Dannica, honey? Can you come here, please?”
My mother’s voice carries through my in-law suite on a breeze but feels like a raging storm. A hurricane destroying hopes and dreams.
I swallow the lump in my throat and close the email, the image of that life vanishing. What the hell am I doing?
“Be right out.”
I close the laptop and slide it back onto the corner of my desk. The application will still be there tomorrow. One more day isn’t going to make a difference.
At least that’s what I tell myself.