Diner Talk and Destiny
Levi
The diner smelled like syrup, sizzling bacon, and generational meddling. I barely had one boot over the threshold before the bell jingled, and four silver-haired heads turned toward me. If I didn’t know any better, they’d been lying in wait. Might as well have been.
My mom and her quilting group met for breakfast every Friday. Saturdays were the book club’s turn. I forget when the knitters and crocheters showed up, but they were in the rotation somewhere.
Mom gave me a smile that said, “You’re late to your own ambush.
“Morning,” I muttered, tipping an imaginary hat. My gaze drifted to the counter, and there she was—Cassie, red curls loose and eyes buried in a book. Scarf tucked around her neck. Pancakes already half gone.
“Hey,” I said, sliding onto the stool next to her. “You survived Janet’s cookies.”
She didn’t look up. “Barely. I’m still debating a sugar coma or second breakfast.”
When Doris set my coffee down, the clatter suggested she’d been eavesdropping since sunrise. “Same as usual, Levi?”
I nodded, then looked at Cassie. “Word of warning—if she offers the cinnamon buns, say no. It’s a trap.”
Cassie smirked. “What kind of trap?”
“Flaky, sticky, and liable to convince you to buy real estate.”
The smile she gave me tugged at something I didn’t want to name. I took a sip of coffee instead.
Then Mom appeared, like a hawk pouncing on its prey.
“Cassie, this is my mother, Kathy,” I said. “She also happens to run the high school.”
Cassie stood to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, the pleasure’s mine,” Mom said, eyes already measuring Cassie for a metaphorical apron. “You’re just visiting, or are we lucky enough to keep you for a while?”
Cassie’s lips twitched. “Guess that depends on your truck parts pipeline.”
Mom turned on the charm like a high beam. “Well, Everwood has a mind of its own. And deliveries can go astray.”
I groaned softly. “Here we go.”
Cassie arched a brow, amused. “Go where?”
“She’s matchmaking,” I whispered.
“Am not,” Mom said sweetly. Then louder: “Levi, why don’t you show her around today?”
Cassie blinked. “Oh, I—”
I jumped in. “Town tour’s on me. Only slightly haunted.”
Mom patted my shoulder like I’d finally come around. “Take her to the Old Montana Prison. History. Scandal. Iron bars.”
Cassie laughed, eyes meeting mine. “Everwood’s charming and ominous. Love that. But I need to check on my car.”
My chest tightened a little, the way it does when you want something and suspect you might not deserve it.
“We can swing by Jordan’s on the way out of town.” I nudged her plate. “Finish those pancakes first. You’ll need your strength.”
She shook her head, but her smile lingered as she picked up her fork.
Mom sashayed back to her booth, satisfied.
Cassie leaned over, voice just above a whisper. “Do I need a lawyer to survive this tour?”
I grinned, sipping my coffee. “Only if you make a run for the state line.”
By the time we left the diner, half the town had Cassie’s name memorized, and three of them had probably already started crocheting her a welcome mat.
I opened the truck door and gave a small bow. “Your chariot awaits.”
Cassie rolled her eyes, but was already used to this brand of small-town nonsense. “So, is this part of the official Everwood orientation?”
“Absolutely. Step one: survive the diner ladies. Step two: willingly enter a former prison with a near-stranger.”
She raised a brow. “Bold move. What’s step three?”
“More cornbread. You’ll gain so much weight from Will’s cooking that you’ll be ashamed to show your face outside the town borders.”
She laughed, the sound tugging something loose in my chest. It was becoming a problem, that laugh.
We drove in companionable quiet. The conversation didn’t have to be loud to mean something.
There was no chance of the part Jordan needed to fix her Ford coming in before Monday, so I had time to work my charm on her.
She watched the town pass, waiting for it to reveal a secret if she stared long enough—past the antique store, the town mural with a bear on a bicycle, and the faded banner from last summer’s Founders Festival still flapping on the hardware store awning.
“You really like it here,” she said, almost to herself.
I glanced over. “I do. Everwood grows on you. Like Janet’s cookies. Or moss.”
She smiled again, a little softer. “Not sure I’m the growing-roots type.”
“Most people aren’t,” I said, turning onto the gravel road that led to the prison. “Until they are.”
The Old Montana Prison stood at the end of the drive, waiting for someone to appreciate its creepy charm. Cassie leaned forward, squinting at the stone walls and rusted gate. “Well. That’s…cheerful.”
“Don’t let the bars fool you,” I said, hopping out. “Inside, it’s full of thrilling facts and vaguely haunted vibes.”
She followed me toward the entrance; her scarf tugged tighter against the breeze. “Ever take a date to a prison before?”
“This isn’t a date,” I said, though it came out weaker than I meant.
She smiled sidelong. “Didn’t answer the question.”
I held the gate open with a mock flourish. “Welcome to Everwood’s finest cultural institution. Population: currently ghost-free. At least until sundown.”
The place was quiet, just the way I liked it. It lets two people hear themselves think—or hear each other without saying too much.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of old stone and pine cleaner. Cassie wandered toward the first exhibit, reading a plaque aloud with theatrical seriousness. “‘Warden Henry McGill was known for his strict discipline and questionable hobbies.’”
She looked over her shoulder. “Is that code for something?”
I shrugged. “Could be. Or just a man with too much time on his hands.”
Her laugh echoed down the hallway. It bounced off stone and steel like a warm echo in a cold place.
That was the moment I knew: I was most likely being optimistic, or maybe it was wishful thinking, but she wasn’t just visiting. She was already being written into the story of this town.
Even if she didn’t know it yet.
Cassie kept drifting ahead, fingers trailing along stone walls, pausing to peer into empty cells like she half-expected to find a ghost in stripes taking a nap. I stayed a few steps behind, mostly watching her try not to look impressed.
“This place is…” she turned, her expression caught between amused and unnerved, “...a lot.”
“Haunted history. Broken windows. Vague threat of tetanus. It’s the full Everwood experience.”
She gave a mock shiver. “Charming.”
“Thank you,” I said, deadpan. “We aim for charmingly unsettling in our tourist traps.”
She stepped into a narrow hallway lined with rusted cell doors, glancing back. “Is this where you bring all the tourists?”
I shrugged. “Only the redheads who pretend they’re not enjoying themselves.”
Her snort bounced off the concrete. “I’m not pretending. I’m…cautiously engaged.”
We reached the riot exhibit—glass cases of old keys, letters, and a replica of a hand-carved shiv labeled “not for sale.” She stared at the weapon as if it were a lost artifact from a movie. “How much trouble do you think this town saw back then?”
“Not much more than now. Back then, it was pickaxes and poker brawls. These days, it’s passive-aggressive bake sales.”
Her eyes narrowed, amused. “You’re making this up.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“I was briefly. Got kicked out over a fire-starting incident involving Pop-Tarts and ambition.”
That made her laugh—a proper one, cracking through the armor she wore like an extra scarf. I tucked the sound away for safekeeping.
We climbed the narrow staircase to the old guard tower. She paused halfway up to catch her breath, her hand against the wall.
“Welcome to rural cardio,” I said, offering her a hand that she surprisingly took.
The top was dusty but bright. Everwood stretched beneath us—rooftops and trees and the gentle sprawl of a place that didn’t try to be more than it was. Cassie stepped to the edge, her hair catching the sunlight, and went quiet.
I let the silence sit, filling the space with everything we weren’t saying. She looked like she belonged up here—curious, unhurried, just the faintest furrow in her brow.
“It’s…pretty,” she said finally. “Peaceful.”
“It gets under your skin.”
She glanced sideways. “So, I’ve heard.”
I leaned on the railing beside her, letting our shoulders nearly touch. Not quite. But close enough to feel it. “Some towns change you. Some just let you slow down.”
Her expression softened, the wind tugging at a strand of hair that brushed my arm. “And which is this?”
“Little of both, maybe.”
For once, she didn’t deflect with a joke. Just nodded, quiet, thoughtful. And for the first time, I wondered if she could see herself staying—not because of my matchmaking mother, but for this. This view. This stillness. Maybe even this moment.
We stood there a little too long, and neither of us minded.
Back on solid ground, Cassie lingered near the cellblock while I rattled off trivia about prison escapes and guard dogs with a flair that would've made my high school drama teacher proud.
“Let me guess,” she said, eyeing a plaque on the wall, “you were voted Most Likely to Lead a Historical Tour Dressed as an Outlaw?”
“Second place. First went to a guy who stole a mascot costume from the high school and ran the mile in it. Although when the sheriff put him in the back of Everwood’s one patrol car, he claimed he’d just borrowed the costume.
No Shakespeare in the park in town, so that kind of thing passes for entertainment. ”
She laughed again—different this time. Unguarded. Forgetting for a second that this was temporary.
“I was definitely not that fun in high school,” she said, peering into a cell. “More the ‘perfect attendance and mild anxiety’ type.”
“Tragic. We could’ve been best friends. I was the quiet guy who fixed everyone’s science projects and got roped into prom setup.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Let me guess—mood lighting and structurally sound balloon arches?”
“Exactly. Romance with safety precautions.”
Cassie leaned against the bars of an old cell door, her arms folded. “So, what’s the appeal of this place? The prison, I mean.”
“Grit. Ghosts. Plaques that nobody reads.” I stepped beside her. “Also, it’s weirdly peaceful. I’ve always felt like the place is tired of being scary and just wants to be part of the scenery.”
She looked up at me then, eyes soft but wary. “And you? You tired of being scary?”
“Never was.” I nudged her shoulder with mine. “You just think I’m brooding because I don’t talk as much as Tim.”
“That’s a low bar.”
We both laughed, the sound echoing off the stone. She turned to the next cell, peeking in and seeming to be cataloging memories that didn’t belong to her.
“Does it bother you?” she asked, suddenly quieter. “Everyone thinks they know you better than you know yourself?”
I thought about it. Shrugged. “Not really. You learn to stop explaining yourself after a while. Either people see you or they don’t.”
Cassie looked at me like she saw more than I was letting on, which—annoyingly—might’ve been true.
“Still,” she said, tugging her scarf a little tighter, “I bet you’re full of secrets.”
“Only the fun kind.”
“Like?”
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “I can do a perfect chicken impression.”
Her grin broke instantly. “Liar.”
“I swear. But I only perform under extreme duress—weddings, barn dances, awkward small-town fundraisers.”
“Tragic. If only there were a fundraiser coming up…”
I groaned. “Don’t give my mother ideas.”
Her eyes sparkled with something new—mischief, maybe. Or trust.
“Too late,” she said, starting toward the exit. “Pretty sure she’s already plotting your duet with a goat.”
“Again?”
We stepped out into the sunlight, the fresh mountain air bracing after the heavy quiet inside. Cassie glanced back once, the prison’s walls shadowed behind her. I watched her take a deep breath.
The prison’s gift shop was trying very hard to be charming. Someone had made a valiant effort with a pine-scented candle and a display of “Haunted History” mugs, but it still smelled faintly like dust and regret.
Cassie paused by the postcard rack, flipping through faded photos of stone walls and stern-looking wardens. “You ever actually bought anything in here?” she asked, holding up one with a ghost graphic and the caption Do Time in Montana.
“Only when my neighbor’s kid needed a last-minute birthday gift.” I pointed to a snow globe with a tiny noose inside. “He loved it. His mom, not so much.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Everwood is...different.”
I grinned. “We try.”
Cassie moved on to a shelf of prison-made soap—lavender bars stamped with little license plate shapes. She picked one up and sniffed. “Not bad. If you ignore the existential dread.”
“I hear the peppermint one helps ward off ghosts.”
“That’s what the milk was for last night,” she shot back, and I laughed, surprised by how easily she volleyed now. She was loosening, letting herself enjoy the ridiculous charm of it all, even if her scarf was still wound tight.
“Look,” I said, pointing to a guestbook on the counter. “You can rate your ghost experience.”
She leaned over, reading aloud. “‘Felt a chill, heard a whisper. Might’ve been the wind or my ex-boyfriend’s bad energy.’” She blinked. “Five stars.”
“Everwood attracts only the finest hauntings.”
She grinned, then paused. “You said earlier that your mom’s trying to keep me here. Is that just matchmaking, or…”
I shrugged, leaning on the counter beside her. “A little of both. Small towns do that. We get attached fast.”
Her fingers brushed a keychain shaped like a jail cell. “And you? Are you...attached?”
“To you?” I asked, risking a smile.
“To this place,” she corrected, but her cheeks flushed pink.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I am. Everwood’s not perfect. But it’s where I belong. Born and raised.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, slow and thoughtful, letting the truth of that sink in.
Outside, the wind kicked up a swirl of leaves against the truck. I opened the door for her, and as she climbed in, she glanced at me over her shoulder.
“Thanks for the tour, Levi.”
“Anytime.” I hesitated, then added, “Even if you’re just passing through.”
The drive back was easy. Comfortable silence broken by the occasional joke about haunted soap and goat-themed fundraisers. But when we pulled up in front of the inn, Cassie lingered in the passenger seat, her fingers tracing the seam of the seat.
“You know,” she said, “I might have to come back here. That gift shop still owes me a decent magnet.”
I looked at her, steady. “You’ve got time. No rush. And Miller’s Pass is just a few hours away.”
She nodded, smiled, then slipped out and shut the door. I watched her climb the steps, pause at the porch, then glance back.
A look passed between us—warm, quiet, unsure. But hopeful.
And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to see Everwood the way I did.