1
AIDYN
As I clearthe mess left by a family of four, a sparkly blur catches my attention. Zye. Twirling. Again. And before I can stop him, his outstretched arms knock Mrs. Weppler’s iced tea into her lap.
Zye jerks to a stop, and his hands fly to his face. The kid is seventeen, but he looks younger with his spiked white hair and elfin face. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Weppler.”
Her smile is stiff as she wipes splotches of tea from her dress. “It’s fine, dear.” But fresh tears shine in her eyes. Jesus. Of all the people and all the days…
“Lanie,” I yell to my nine-year-old daughter, who’s clearing tables on the other side of the diner, “get me my mop.” Then I shoo Zye away. Not that he goes very far. I ignore him, for now. “I’m sorry, Lorrainne. He’s just a kid—”Way to make it worse.“I mean?—”
“Stop, please.” She presses her lips together and sniffs. Then she points her finger at me. The same one she pointed at me when Lanie’s library books were overdue by one day. “I’m barely holding on as it is, Aidyn Christy, so don’t you dare make it worse.”
Christ. Now she’s full-naming me. Most people call me Christy. That’s what everyone calls my da back at our family pub in Dublin. It’s a tradition. No one calls me Aidyn. Almost no one. “I was trying to be nice.”
“Exactly. You’re never nice.”
“That’s not true. I’m nice sometimes.”
Zye snorts, and I glare at him. Lanie is standing beside him with the mop, but she ducks her head, and I’m fairly sure she’s trying not to grin.
“Maybe I have good reasons to be grumpy,” I say to them both before turning back to Mrs. Weppler.
“Much better.” She throws money on the table, careful to avoid the puddle of tea dripping off the edge and onto the floor. Normally, I wouldn’t leave a mess to stop and chat, but Mrs. Weppler’s daughter decided to skip her own wedding in favor of eloping to Vegas. There was some fighting going on between the bride’s and groom’s parents, from what I hear. The wedding cake Mrs. Weppler had me bake is still in the refrigerator. I tried to get her to take it since she paid for it. But she wouldn’t go for it.
Mrs. Weppler rushes out with a wave of her hand, barely missing another couple entering the diner. Grabbing my mop from Lanie, I nod toward the customers. “Go on, lass. I’ve got this.”
Emily and I opened Christy’s Café when Lanie was but a wee babe. She was raised in the diner. I’ve encouraged her to do other things. Kid things. But she wants to be here helping out. Especially since her ma is gone.
The diner has been busy all day. This is one of the only places to eat in Mule Creek, but that’s not the reason for the rush of townsfolk. We’re closed tomorrow for a family event.
I mop up the spilled drink, scowling at Zye every so often so he gets my message. I’ve had it with all the spinning. He hovers, picking at the rhinestones that spell out DIVA on his shirt.
When he catches my glare, he raises his chin. “Do you want me to clean it?”
“No.” As if I’d let him touch my mop. “But you cannot twirl in here, Zye. Go outside.” My Irish brogue gets more pronounced when I’m stressed or excited. And right now, I’m stressed beyond my limit.
His hands go to his hips, not backing down one bit. This boy gets on my last nerve, but he’s tougher than most. Stubborn. “It was an accident.”
“I know, lad.”
I try to take my annoyance down a notch even as my chest tightens at his words. Accidents happen. I know that better than anyone. And maybe that’s the reason I’m on edge. It’s been two years since the accident that took my sweet Emily, and it still feels like yesterday.
He huffs. “Then why are you glaring at me?”
The lad will be a senior in high school when summer break is over, but he’s got the enthusiasm of a kindergartener and the scars of someone much older. Zye doesn’t talk about his home life or his past, but sometimes, I can see flashes of pain. Not fresh, but like they’ve been brewing for a while.
Zye plans to go to Northwest State in Maryville after high school and become a certified event planner. Which annoys me because he has no experience yet, but he’s planning my sister-in-law’s wedding.
All the build-up to the big day—shite, that’s tomorrow—brings bittersweet memories that have me wanting to laugh and cry and hide in my room until it’s all over.
Emily would have loved planning her sister’s wedding.
A wave of melancholy hits me right in the chest. Not that my sadness is ever gone. But sometimes it slips behind the anger, catching me unaware. Emily is supposed to be here for this.
And for Lanie. The lass is only nine, but it won’t be long before she’s going through things she’ll need her mother for. Not a grumpy dad who’s barely holding it together.
“Christy, stop picking on my wedding planner.”
