Chapter 2 Jason
JASON
The Lighthouse Diner buzzed like a beehive on free pie day.
I slid between tables, coffee pot in one hand, order slips in the other, avoiding toddlers and grumpy retirees with the grace of a man who knew the exact angle to dodge flying toast. Mrs. Forrester waved me over from booth three.
“Jason, honey, my eggs are whispering to me.”
“Tell them to mind their business,” I said, topping off her coffee. “You want hot sauce or counseling?”
She cackled and pinched my arm. “Both.”
At the counter, Levi, our fry cook, shouted, “Order up! Pancakes, no judgment, extra whipped cream!” That meant Carla Torres was here. Carla was going through a breakup. Again.
The scent of bacon clung to the air. The floor tiles squeaked in the exact spot I never got around to fixing. A kid screamed about syrup. Someone else ordered French toast without actually making eye contact, which I respected.
This place wasn’t just my job. It was the only thing that made sense.
I could track ten conversations, three empty coffee cups, and the exact moment someone decided to leave a cheap tip.
My senses itched when something went wrong and settled when everything clicked.
The rhythm of it—the noise, the heat, the smell of burnt toast—it kept me sane.
Then my phone buzzed.
I ignored it. Kept pouring, flipping, nodding, dodging.
It buzzed again. Same number.
I checked the screen. Aunt Ophelia. My stomach dropped straight into my socks.
I muttered something I didn’t want my grandmother to hear, handed the coffee pot to Fiona, my server on duty, and said, “Cover me. If I don’t come back, I’ve finally run off to join a cult.”
Fiona blinked. “Okay. But I’m still clocking out at five.”
I ducked into the back hallway. The walls here had been yellow once. Now they looked like tea-stained paper. I leaned against the ancient utility sink and picked up.
“Jason,” Aunt Ophelia said, “how’s my favorite single nephew?”
“You only have one nephew.”
“Exactly. So, how’s the engagement going?”
I closed my eyes. “Nonexistent.”
“Ah.” She sounded pleased. “Then this is the perfect time to remind you: next week marks five years. Five. Cinco. And as per our incredibly legal, emotionally manipulative agreement, I will sell the diner if you’re not in a relationship by then.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I just haggled down a ghost real estate agent in Portland. You think I’m bluffing?”
My jaw clenched. “I’ve kept this place running. We’re profitable. We’re the only diner within thirty miles that still serves liver and onions. I’m even hiring a marketing director to grow the business. Doesn’t that count for something?”
"It counts for charm," she said through the phone. "But I need something steadier. Roots. Legacy. Matching his-and-hers coffee mugs. Real romance." She paused. "I know this might sound cruel, Jason, but trust me, this is for your own good. Believe me, you’ll thank me later."
“I can’t be with someone just to save the diner.”
“Chop Chop,” she said. “See you next week.”
She hung up.
I stood there for a long second, staring at the mop bucket like it might provide answers. Then I went back out to the dining room.
Everything looked the same, but now it all felt like it might break. The pie display flickered. The napkin dispensers looked smug. I swear the floor creaked louder just to mock me.
“Everything okay?” Fiona asked, balancing three plates like a magician.
“Yup,” I said. “I just need a girlfriend in seven days, or I lose the only good thing in my life. Normal Tuesday.”
She blinked. “You want to date me?”
“I’ve seen your creepy doll collection. Hard pass.”
She snorted and walked off.
I leaned against the counter and stared through the front window. The lighthouse stood tall in the distance, unbothered like it always was. Maybe I should’ve dated that.
Every attempt at dating in this town had felt like trying on pants that didn’t fit. Too stiff. Too fake. Too clingy. No one ever got it. No one ever felt right.
Except Emily.
I glanced at the counter stool closest to the pie case. Hers. She always sat there. Always stole my fries. Always fixed the chalkboard sign when my handwriting looked like I had a seizure mid-slogan.
We didn’t end with a fight. No slammed doors. Just two people who wanted different maps. She chased New York. I stayed here. She wanted skyscrapers. I wanted fried eggs and the smell of lemon Pledge on the counter.
Losing her hadn’t hurt like a stab. It hurt like frostbite. Slow, numbing, and permanent.
The crowd started to trickle out. I wiped the counter with more force than necessary. Levi stuck his head out of the kitchen.
“You good?”
“No.”
“Cool.”
He disappeared again.
I looked out the window. The town felt smaller. The diner felt quieter. My future felt like a countdown clock I hadn’t noticed until today.
Seven days. One diner. Zero love life.
I needed a miracle. Or at least someone willing to fake it with good hair and a decent signature.
Either way, I was screwed.