Chapter 8 Whatever Will Be, Will Be
Whatever Will Be, Will Be
Jas
Aweek later
I push the diner door open to The Sugar Maple Bistro. Music floats from the jukebox, low and subtle, under the chatter, laughter, and the clink of forks on plates. And the aroma of food—delicious, greasy cheeseburgers with fresh coffee.
I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. I fire off a quick text to Oriana and Dom. I'm here. Oriana promised to call with a fake emergency if needed.
“Jasmira!” Bernard rises from his seat, fingers combing through his dark waves, before waving.
A tweed blazer hangs over the back of the booth, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and I have to admit, it’s sexy as all hell. His round, framed glasses enhance his blue eyes.
I give him a small wave and a bright smile. I'm excited to meet in person, and it has been fun getting to know him. Hearing him talk about his work and the way his face lights up when he talks about his nephews is adorable, especially when we talk about things we have in common, like reading.
Each small glimpse into his world made him feel a little more real and a little less like a stranger. Taking a leap of faith to meet someone new is always a mix of emotions, hope tangled with nerves.
My white sneakers shuffle on the tile as my feet carry me across the diner. I’m severely underdressed compared to what he’s wearing. It’s okay, girl. Calm down. This is a diner. And we are on a lunch break. We give one another a small hug before sliding into opposite sides of the booth.
“It's great to see you,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners, “you have such a beautiful smile.”
Fuck. I lost the bet.
“Thanks.” I smile faintly. I shrug off my rain jacket, setting it down beside me on the cracked vinyl seat. “I’m glad we were able to do this."
A shadow falls across our table. “Welcome!” The waitress announces, the metal name tag pinned to her apron—Darcie.
Her pencil makes a soft scratching sound on her notepad as she jots down our drink order. She tucks the pencil back behind her ear, where a blond curl escapes, and hands us each a laminated menu.
“I’ll give y’all a minute, but holler for me if you need me,” she says, giving us a beaming smile before pivoting toward the kitchen.
He waves my gratitude off easily, resuming our conversation. “Me too. I honestly can’t remember the last time I actually left the office for lunch and dined somewhere.”
“Glad I was able to get you out for a bit before the weekend. Under the sky with some fresh air.”
He grins. “Yeah, sure…I definitely came for the fresh air.”
I can’t help laughing, shaking my head, sliding my menu closer to me. “Smooth.”
“Was it?” He grins. “I was going for charming.”
“Were you?”
“Maybe,” he says, smirking, “but I’ll take the risk.” He picks up his menu. “Have you been here before?”
“A long time ago.” My eyes gaze over the selection, stopping at the Parmesan-crusted grilled cheese with creamy tomato soup. “What do you recommend?”
He scans the page like a man on a mission. “This place is famous for its sandwiches, but if you’re feeling daring, the pot roast melt will change your life.”
The waitress returns with our drinks, and I order the grilled cheese and soup. Bernard decides to order the life-changing pot roast melt.
Our conversation slips into a natural rhythm. Like we’re old friends sharing stories. He tells me about his job, and honestly, hearing the steps taken to perform a root canal has my jaw clenching with every word of the story. Is this why people are terrified of dentists?
“I’m sorry,” he says, his fingers wrapping around the glass of water as he takes a sip.
“It’s fine,” I say, lying through my teeth.
On the app, he seems like a great match.
He’s attractive, loves kids, has a good career, and loves books.
He’s a good guy. But now we’ve hit the awkward patch.
We’re chatting a little bit too much about teeth—specifically, my teeth.
I think friends are all we’ll ever be. He’s really sweet, and more nervous than me.
“I’m just nervous. You’re actually my first date since my breakup.”
Oh. Well…fascinating. At least he’s honest.
“We broke up three months ago.”
A little too honest? This just keeps getting better and better.
Darcie—whose timing is impeccable—appears with a tray balanced on her palm. Her smile beams as she slides the plates onto our table with practiced ease.
“Here you go.” Her eyes bounce back and forth between us. “Do you need anything else?”
We shake our heads no.
“Enjoy!”
Silence falls between us like a heavy fog as we stay in the friend zone our entire meal.
The diner is getting more packed by the minute.
He steers the conversation to his nephews again, how one of them just learned to tie his shoes and still refuses to accept help when it’s time to leave, when the bunny ears keep collapsing.
I smile, picturing this tiny person’s determination. I’m looking forward to it with Seren. Seeing her learn something new and wanting to take full control over her newfound independence. But I’m not ready for the whiplash of frustration coming with it.
Bernard was born and raised in Pumpkin Grove and has recently moved back after leaving the city. He spent last winter solstice snorkeling in turquoise Caribbean waters, and is allergic to cats.
As his nerves relax, my shoulders do the same, and my laugh comes easier. I realize I’m actually enjoying myself. Though I do hope he can figure something out with his ex. Maybe a miscommunication has caused them to go their separate ways. I hate that trope.
The waitress brings the check, and before I can take out my card to pay my portion, Bernard opens it and slips the card into the inner pocket, setting it on the edge of the table for our waitress.
Sunlight spills through the wispy clouds in soft ribbons as we walk out. “Thanks for lunch," I say, my eyes squinting a bit in the afternoon light, "it really was nice to meet you.”
“I’m not going to see you again, am I?” He manages a small smile.
“I think you have some unfinished business to work out, but you’re sweet and easy to talk to." I step forward, giving him a light hug. “Good luck, Bernard. Take care.”
He nods, giving me a final wave before he turns and heads to his car.
I unlock the door and toss my purse on the seat beside me. Now that was quite eventful. My phone vibrates in my bag, and I dig for it, seeing the text appear on the screen.
Oriana: 9-1-1?
I push through the café door, and the aroma of coffee slips over me like a warm sweater. Blythe is restocking the mini fridge and turns her head so quickly she may have whiplash. She waves, her headphones dangling around her neck.
“Hey! How was your lunch?” she asks, voice giddy.
“Good,” I say, pushing through the back door to quickly hang my jacket up and reach for my apron. “It was…good.”
Before she can ask for details, the front door swings open, and in walks Oriana—her raincoat trailing behind, hair slightly tousled from the wind. She’s grinning, waving her phone in the air like it's proof of something gone wrong.
“I didn’t get the text for an emergency!” she announces, crossing the room in three strides in her black leather ankle boots.
Corra—Oriana's Tide Sprite, who is always with her or in her cozy nook at the candle shop—flits around Oriana's long, thick, wavy blue locks. She approaches the teacup I set out for her, perching herself on the rim, inhaling the lavender Earl Grey tea with a spoonful of honey.
Her body is a water droplet, no bigger than the teacup she sits upon. Her curvy edges blurred like mist rising off Sapphire Lake—hues of blues, seafoam green, and silver from the moonlight. She's a beautiful little being.
I turn my attention back to Oriana and laugh. “I didn’t need to be rescued.”
“Tides take it,” Oriana mumbles. “I had fun creating ideas! Like a cursed candle explosion, a flood, or how I siren sang Malik to get on his knees like the good vampy he is, but now he’s stuck.” She smiles, her brows bouncing playfully. “You didn’t give me the chance to use any of them!”
“Sorry to disappoint. No rescue necessary.”
Blythe snorts behind the counter. “Cursed candle explosion?”
Oriana flicks her wrist dramatically. “I own a candle shop. I have to stay on brand.”
"This is true," Corra chimes in, her voice is gentle, soothing like rain.
“Can your siren song curse your candles? If so, I’m sure there’s a market for it,” Blythe asks.
“Oh,” Oriana hums. “I like the way you think. Text me your ideas. I may have to create a candle line, inspired by you.”
I laugh at the two of them as I grab the pitcher and head to the espresso machine.
“Since your dating life is significantly way better than mine," I announce, "does this mean you will have a wedding date picked soon? I have the perfect florist and flower girl for you.”
Oriana shakes her head and smiles. “No dates, but we’ll let you know as we get closer. I just want to enjoy what we have right now a little while longer, but I take it the date went well?”
“It went well, I guess. Could have been worse, but he was easy to talk to.”
“If I had to date again," Oriana says, nails tapping on the counter, "I’d have scared him off in five minutes.”
“Doubtful,” I say. “You’d have him on both knees proposing in five minutes.”
As Oriana describes her dream of a moonlit ceremony by the sea, I’ve already begun crafting a new latte I want her to try. A Cinna-Vanillabee Latte with notes of smoked vanilla, honey, and cinnamon flavors wrapped in warmth and topped with whipped cream.
She drops a few crisp bills onto the counter, and I tuck them into the tip jar.
I finish her drink and hand it to her. Oriana takes a long pull from her drink, licking the whipped cream from her upper lip.
“This right here,” she says, raising her cup between us, “is one of the many reasons I love you.”
A playful smirk spreads across my face. “I love you too."
Around us, customers nibble on pastries, cradling hot drinks while the late afternoon light of the sun filters through the windows in greeting.
I use this moment of downtime to give her the short version of my date, making it clear a second date isn’t in the foreseeable future.
She fills me in on her spring candle collection and gushes about a new thriller keeping her up at night in suspense.
She wraps me in a quick hug. “Don’t worry about the date. What will be, will be.”
Her words linger after she leaves. It’s easier said than done, but she does have a point. All I can do is take it one date at a time.
Blythe finishes her end-of-day tasks before heading out with the rest of the customers. The faint tick of the clock on the wall keeps me company.
I move through the usual closing routine—organizing drinkware, disinfecting counters and tables, sweeping and mopping.
My body knows the routine as I go through the motions, but my mind is scattered. Thoughts drift to the diner.
To past dates.
The life I built.
To Aaryn, and the first time I saw him. How my mind started to imagine more than the sweet taste of honey.
I imagine how new love might feel. Will it feel like silk on my skin?
Melt on the tongue like chocolate-dipped strawberries, or will it be soothing as a first sip of coffee?
I want all of it. The sight, sound, scent, touch, and taste.
The honeyed love I once knew is gone, and a new one will have its own sweetness.
He would sit in the booth, watching me. Grinning when I caught him staring, the blush spreading across my cheeks. He would say coffee and honey mean life keeps moving. It keeps growing into something more, even when you feel stuck.
"You were right,” I whisper, “it does keep moving.” Even without you. I take one last look around the café before flipping the lights off. The air is cool when I step outside and lock up. My mind is preparing my checklist of what I need to do before I pick up Seren for a fun night in.
Life, moving on.