There’s one of those fancy playgrounds made of sleek composite wood and soft rubber turf that makes me laugh at the memories I compare it to. It’s modern and minimalist, like it was plucked from an IKEA catalog. Back home, we had two metal slides, both strategically placed to catch the sun and brand your ass and thighs as you slid down. The swing set groaned a tune that sounded like a dying chicken, and the mulch? Wood chips. Sharp ones.
We left with scars and cool stories, but this place smells like lavender sanitizer and hot rubber.
I’d probably still take the splinters.
Mitch got me, though. I had to open my mouth and ask for more hours. Frankly, he’s been decreasing them by an hour here and there because of some new hires, and that’s why I asked. Technically, I didn’t say I wanted them at the diner, but it was implied.
Now I’m stuck under a pavilion that looks like something from a wedding catalog for a ten-year-old’s birthday because he’s so spoiled he needed a grilled cheese bar from his favorite diner. Honestly, don’t ask me to repeat that. I can’t believe what just came out of my mouth.
I have to give it to them, though, it’s beautiful at this park. Whitewashed beams, hanging flower baskets, strung up fairy lights for when dusk settles. It even smells good here, like honey, and we haven’t even begun grilling the sandwiches yet.
Lucky me. I get to cater grilled cheese here for an army of children while pretending I don’t resent the choice that led me here. Myonlyhope is that I get to steal a piece of cake.
The choppy music thumps, overpowering the chatter of well-dressed moms, and for that I’m grateful. Crisp button-downs, dresses, tailored polos, expensive shoes. These parents mill around in what I’m assuming are designer outfits, sipping from glass tumblers like it’s one of my mom’s garden parties and not a kid’s birthday party.
An orange balloon pops from a bunch tied to the pavilion post, and I startle, the crate in my hands crashing to the ground. “Shit.” That damn prank phone call got to me. I’m not sure why I’ve let it bother me, trigger me, but it doesn’t help with my already persistent nightmares.
“Lily! Let’s get this set up,” Mitch barks, his head buried in the back of the van.
Damn man is stressing. He told me he doesn’t cater much, but his wife knows the boy’s mother and well, he’s stuck.
We all are.
He’s brought me and one of the line cooks in the kitchen. I don’t know his name, don’t care to ask, but he’s short, stays out of the way, and isn’t flirting with the moms, so who am I to complain.
I scoop up the packages of pre-sliced cheeses and other fixings, dumping them into the crate and standing before I head to the buffet table. While party guests arrive and help themselves to drinks, I set up the grilled cheese bar.
Fresh loaves of sourdough, rye, and white bread start the line, followed by bacon crumbles, caramelized onions, roasted red peppers, tomato slices that Hannah chopped so well they almost look fake. Mitch went all out with the cheeses: sharp cheddar, creamy mozzarella, smoky gouda. I’m over it already.
It’s unseasonably warm, and sweat beads on my temples, but I prop up the small chalkboard sign anyway and write Build Your Own Grilled Cheese in curvy white letters.
Our table is set up next to the dessert, and I gaze at the three-tiered cake. Bright blue frosting swirls at the base like waves, contrasted by neon orange piped in playful zigzags. Green fondant stars decorate the top in a chaotic way, and past that?—
I spot the uniform and my heart jumps into my throat. That’s before I see who’s in it.
All clean lines in that forest-green ranger uniform, Ranger Sullivan shifts his broad shoulders as he looks through the crowd of people. His sleeves are rolled, exposing thick forearms, and his badge gleams in the afternoon sun. In his hand is a neatly wrapped box, simple baby blue paper tied with brown twine.
Of course, he brought a gift. And of course he walked in here in uniform as a distraction.
When he spots someone he knows, he walks up to the man, also in uniform—local police from the looks of it. My lip curls when the cop crosses his arms and gives him a smug smirk. Theychat for a moment, both of them laughing, and I continue to watch them out of the corner of my eye.
Unfortunately, Ranger Sullivan spots me almost instantly and lifts a hand in a casual wave. I look over my shoulder to make sure he’s gesturing at me and then nod at him. Figures.
I’ll admit he’s the last person I expected at a little boy’s birthday two towns over, like he just strolled out of a recruitment poster. I’m surprised his trusty drooling sidekick isn’t here.
I busy myself plugging in the electric griddles, but my eyes flick to him seconds later, involuntarily.
His are locked on me. Then he moves my direction.
No, no.
I turn away.
“Lily.” He speaks my name softly, like he’s testing it. Or moreover, me and my resolve.
I look up from where I fiddle with the dial on the grill, and he smiles at me, perusing the table. “Is this your?—”
“No.”
