24. Dannica
DANNICA
brEAKING NEWS: LOCAL WOMAN NOT ACTUALLY ALONE
I’m halfway through my shift, balancing a tray on one hand and mentally calculating how many coffees I can carry in the other without disaster striking when the bell over the diner door jingles, and in walks Mrs. Newberry, the town clerk.
In a town like this, it’s basically the equivalent of a walking authority figure with a filing system and opinions. My stomach drops immediately.
LOCAL WOMAN SPOTS GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL. ASSUMES IMMEDIATE WRONGDOING.
She doesn’t come in often, but when she does, it’s never just for coffee.
I can feel the tension in the room shift as she walks straight up to the counter, her handbag tucked neatly under her arm, posture as crisp as ever.
She places a folded piece of paper down in front of me like it’s evidence in a criminal case.
“Dannica,” she says, her tone as sharp as her attire.
“Mrs. Newberry,” I reply, already bracing for impact.
She taps the paper. “Did you write this?”
I glance down and immediately recognize it. The little write-up I slipped into the menus well over a month ago. The one I never thought would travel outside of this building.
Oh. Oh no.
My brain cycles through about ten possible outcomes, none of them good.
brEAKING: LOCAL WOMAN ARRESTED FOR… WRITING. DETAILS UNCLEAR.
I straighten slightly because if I’m going down, I’m going down with dignity.
“Yes,” I say, the word coming out more like a confession than an admission.
There’s a beat, then she nods once, like that confirms something significant.
“Have you ever considered writing for the town newspaper?” she asks, her eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing my potential.
I blink, confusion flooding my mind. “I’m sorry what?”
“The town newspaper,” she repeats, her tone dry but with an underlying hint of enthusiasm.
“We don’t have a town newspaper,” I say automatically, my voice tinged with disbelief. “We haven’t had one for like… a decade.”
“Yes,” she replies, her expression unwavering. “That’s because we haven’t had anyone willing to write for it.”
That takes a moment to pierce my brain. I stare at her, processing her words.
“Are you—” I stop, my mind racing to catch up. “Are you offering me a job?”
She adjusts her glasses slightly, her demeanor unfazed. “I’m offering you the opportunity to come in, review the contracts, and determine if the position suits you. If it does, then yes.”
My heart does something weird. A sharp, sudden lurch that feels a lot like hope and panic crashing into each other at full speed.
LOCAL WOMAN HANDED DREAM OPPORTUNITY. IMMEDIATELY MALFUNCTIONS.
“I—” I let out a breath, pushing a hand through my hair. “I don’t know.”
Her brows lift slightly. “You don’t know.”
“I mean—” I gesture vaguely around me. “This place. The diner. I already have a lot on my plate, and running a whole newspaper feels like… a lot more plate.”
Mrs. Newberry studies me for a long moment, like she’s trying to figure out whether I’m serious or just catastrophically underconfident. Probably both.
“I see,” she says finally.
For some reason, that tiny bit of disappointment in her voice hurts more than it should. Because the truth is, I already know what the answer has to be.
The diner needs someone willing to fully step in. Grandma deserves that. She deserves someone who isn’t half in and half out, chasing some impossible dream that may or may not survive longer than a week. At least here I already know I belong.
My stomach twists painfully.
Funny how quickly something becomes a dream once there’s a chance you might lose it.
Writing that piece had felt… different. Bigger somehow. Like a door opening somewhere inside me I’d spent years pretending wasn’t there. For the first time in a long time, I let myself imagine it. Me writing. Me creating something that mattered outside the walls of this diner.
And maybe that was the problem. Because now I know what it feels like to want it. Wanting something means you can fail at it. It means discovering maybe you’re not as good as you hoped.
I glance around the diner. The booths. The coffee stains nobody else notices. The familiar sizzle of the fryer. Grandma moving through the kitchen like she’s part of the building itself. This place raised me, it fed me and held me together when I needed it most.
And Grandma needs an answer. Not eventually. Now.
A dull ache settles low in my chest as the realization fully lands.
I’m going to say no. Not out loud yet. But internally, the decision settles into place.
I’ll take over the diner, I’ll stop chasing the writing thing before it gets big enough to break my heart properly.
Because dreams are nice, but this place is real.
There’s a pause, and for a moment, I think she might take it all back. But then?—
A loud clatter explodes from the kitchen. Mrs. Newberry and I both turn toward the pass window at the same time. Mary is standing there, frozen, a pot at her feet. And behind the pass, crouched, are Quadri and Shelly.
All very obviously attempting to look like they have not been actively eavesdropping. There’s a long beat, then Shelly pops up, brushing off her apron like she’s just been minding her own business the entire time.
“Okay, in our defense,” she says, “you were talking about something extremely important.”
I stare at them, my jaw dropping in disbelief. “You were all just… under there?”
“Technically, yes,” Quadri says calmly, standing next to Shelly, completely unbothered. “But emotionally, we were right here with you.”
Mary winces slightly. “Sorry about the pot.”
I drag a hand down my face, feeling the weight of the moment. “You guys?—”
“No,” Shelly cuts in, stepping closer, her expression softening. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Automatically decide you have to carry everything by yourself.”
That hits me in the gut.
Quadri folds her arms, nodding slightly. “We’ve been learning.”
I blink. “Learning what?”
“Everything you’ve been doing,” Mary says quickly. “The deep-cleaning schedule? I’ve got it mapped out. Like, fully mapped out.”
“I’ve been working on the requisition forms,” Quadri adds. “Inventory, ordering cycles, all that stuff.”
“And I’ve been tackling the financial side,” Shelly says. “Budgets, suppliers, margins. I kind of love it.”
I look between them. They’re not joking. They’re not throwing out empty reassurances. They mean it.
“Since you’ve been dating Teddy, he’s had to come here to see you. That’s not right. Especially when we get to go home and live our lives all the time. So we figured it out. We don’t need one person doing everything,” Quadri continues. “We can split it. Equally.”
Shelly nods. “You don’t have to be the lead all the time.”
Mary brightens. “We can be a team.”
My heart clenches, but not in a bad way. In a holy shit, I’m not alone kind of way. I stare at them, my throat suddenly too tight. This whole time I thought the choice had already been made. Diner or dream. Responsibility or me. And somewhere along the way, I’d decided I was the sacrifice.
“You guys don’t understand,” I say softly. “Grandma needs someone to take over.”
“We know,” Quadri says.
“And I was going to,” I admit, the words scraping on the way out. “I mean… I am going to. I already decided.”
Shelly’s face shifts slightly at that. “Dannica…”
“I can’t just gamble the diner on me maybe becoming a writer,” I say quickly, trying to laugh a little and failing spectacularly. What if I got everything I’d wanted and still wasn’t good enough? “That feels like the beginning of every terrible financial decision ever made.”
Nobody laughs, which somehow makes it worse.
I look down at my hands. “Writing that story was fun. Really fun. And for a second I let myself think maybe…”
I trail off because finishing that sentence suddenly feels dangerous.
Mary’s face softens. “Maybe you could do it for real?”
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “Maybe.”
Quadri pipes up. “You’re acting like you’ve already been fired from a job you haven’t even started. Why does this have to be on one person?” She gestures between all of us. “Like Mary says, we can be a team.”
I blink. “What?”
“We already run this place together half the time anyway,” Shelly says. “You’re just the idiot doing all the stressful parts alone.”
“Accurate,” Quadri confirms.
Mary nods eagerly. “It makes sense.”
I stare at them. “All four of us?”
“Joint ownership,” Quadri says immediately, because of course she already has terminology ready. “Shared responsibility. Shared workload. Shared profits.”
Shelly points at herself. “I’m emotionally attached to this diner anyway. I’d fight someone for booth three.”
“You almost did last week,” Mary reminds her.
“She knew what she did.”
Despite myself, a laugh escapes me. Small. Watery. Entirely traitorous.
If all four of us owned the diner… I wouldn’t have to carry it alone. The realization lands so suddenly it almost steals the air from my lungs.
I could still write.
“And,” Quadri adds, like she’s just remembering, “I can help with the newspaper. Layout, design, all the visual stuff.”
Shelly snaps her fingers. “I can run ad space. Local businesses, sponsorships, all of that.”
Mary lifts her hand slightly. “I can handle the events calendar and keep track of all the community stuff going on.”
I blink again. Because now this isn’t just an idea. It’s a possibility.
I turn slowly back to Mrs. Newberry. “Is there even a budget for all of that?”
She considers for a moment. “If the additional roles remain part-time, I see no issue.”
I frown slightly. “That’s… surprisingly flexible.”
“The town recently received a rather generous donation,” she says, adjusting her handbag. “Anonymous. It has afforded us… breathing room.”
Anonymous. Huh. That’s… interesting. But not the point. The point is, this could actually happen.
I look at my friends, then at the diner. At everything I’ve been holding together for so long. And for the first time it doesn’t feel like I have to do it alone.