Chapter 3 Emily
EMILY
Istepped into the Lighthouse Diner and got hit with a wave of sugar, bacon grease, and memory.
The bell over the door jingled. Same sound as five years ago. Same pitch. Same echo. The smell hadn’t changed either. Coffee. Toast. Salt air bleeding in through the cracks. But the place looked different.
The walls looked freshly painted. The jukebox was gone, replaced by a speaker near the ceiling playing an acoustic version of something I once danced to at a club in Manhattan. Probably with a cocktail in hand. Definitely with heels that didn’t ache yet.
A chalkboard hung behind the counter, the specials written in a loopy script that tugged at something in my chest. For a split second, I thought of Jason.
His notes in the margins of my textbooks.
The way he used to label leftovers in the fridge.
I shook the thought away. No. It had to be Ms. Ophelia.
She always wrote like that. Dreamy. Slanted.
Like her pen wanted to dance instead of land.
My blazer stuck to the back of my arms. My heels clicked too loud on the floor. Two men at the window gave me a once-over between bites of pancake, then went back to eating.
I gripped the folder tighter. This was a job interview. Nothing more. I’d sent in the application like everyone else. I’d gotten the interview fair and square. Ms. Ophelia ran the diner. This was her place. Not his.
I stepped farther inside and tried to keep my shoulders square.
Then I heard the voice.
“Two chocolate chip pancakes, extra syrup, and tell Carla if she starts crying again, she’s bussing her own table.”
The sound landed in my spine.
I turned before I could stop myself.
Jason.
He stood behind the counter with a towel slung over one shoulder and a plate in each hand.
The sleeves of his flannel were pushed up to his elbows, showing forearms thick with muscle and faint scars that spoke to years of work.
His shoulders filled the space now, solid and sure, the kind of strength earned one shift at a time.
His red hair still flopped into his eyes, stubborn as ever.
He moved with an easy confidence, all grounded heat and purpose.
He looked older but not in the way that hurt. He looked settled. Like time had shaped him instead of wearing him down. He set the plates down, nodded at someone out of sight, and reached for the coffee pot.
I wanted to disappear into the floor.
My brain screamed at me to turn around. Walk out. Change my name. Move to Vermont. Anything.
Instead, I stood there like I’d forgotten how feet worked.
Jason looked up. His smile dropped. The mug in his hand hovered mid-pour, frozen in place. His eyes locked on mine, and the diner fell away. No chatter. No clatter. Just silence pressing against my ribs.
A waitress paused beside him. “You okay, boss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
Jason didn’t answer. He set the mug down with a solid clunk and stepped out from behind the counter.
“Emily,” he said.
I gave a tight smile. “Hi.”
The air thickened. Plates clinked. Voices rose and fell around us, but everything felt smaller. Tilted.
“I didn’t realize you were—” I stopped. “I’m here about the marketing position.”
Jason blinked. “Right. The job. Of course. I saw your résumé and just figured you were a different Emily Carter.”
“Nope. It’s me.”
He looked like someone had just handed him a pie and then shoved his face in it.
“I thought Ms. Ophelia still ran the place,” I said. My voice pitched too high. “She always said she’d only retire for something dramatic. Like alien abduction.”
“She moved to Maine,” Jason said. “She and Mike bought a place near Bar Harbor.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good for her.”
“She’s happy.” He shrugged. “They have goats now.”
“Of course they do.”
My stomach twisted. The past I carried didn’t match what I saw in front of me.
I had packed up that version of us. Tucked it in a box labeled ‘Bittersweet’ and shoved it deep.
But here he was, standing behind the counter of a place I used to dream about leaving, wearing that same look he wore when things got complicated.
“So,” he said. “You’re looking for a job here?”
I nodded. “Temporarily. Just trying to get back on my feet.”
His face stayed still, but his shoulders drew in. Polite. Careful.
My resolve slipped.
I clutched the folder tighter. “I can see this probably isn’t a good idea. Too much history. Too awkward. I should’ve checked who was running the place.”
Jason opened his mouth.
“Thanks for your time,” I said before he could get a word out.
I turned. My heels smacked against the tile with every step. Loud. Obvious.
I didn’t look back. My chest hurt, but I kept my spine straight.
The bell over the door jingled behind me. I walked out into the salt air and told myself I didn’t feel anything.
Even though I did.