I want that. Want to be part of it. Want to build something that lasts.
This morning is hot and relentless. Its Saturday and I'm standing in the bedroom wearing a sundress for the first time in what feels like forever, staring at my reflection and thinking: this is either brilliant or the worst idea I've had since agreeing to marry someone I didn't love.
The sundress is pale yellow cotton with little white flowers.
Very sweet.
Very optimistic.
Very much clinging to every curve I possess because the desert doesn't care about modest fashion choices. But I'm committed now. I'm going to explore this town, meet actual people, and feel like a human instead of a shop gremlin covered in grease and resignation.
I get halway down the block when I realize the sundress is a mistake.
Not a small mistake. Not a "whoops, wrong shoes" mistake. The fabric is sticking to places fabric shouldn't stick. My thighs are already chafing. The straps keep sliding off my shoulders. And my hair, which I left down because I wanted to feel human instead of feral, is now a damp curtain of regret clinging to my neck.
But I'm committed. I've made this far. Turning back now would be admitting defeat, and I've already admitted defeat to enough things this month—my engagement, my old life, basic adulting skills like "remembering to eat lunch." I'm not adding "couldn't handle a sundress in the desert" to the list.
A truck rumbles past, driver raising two fingers in greeting even though we've never met, and I wave back because apparently that's what you do here. Acknowledge existence. Participate in small-town rituals I'm still learning.
Sunny's Diner appears like a mirage, pink neon glowing even in daylight, and I nearly run the last fifty feet. The blast of cold air when I push through the door makes me want to cry. Or propose marriage to whoever invented air conditioning. Maybe both.
The diner's packed. Every booth full, counter lined with regulars, the smell of coffee and bacon and pie thick enough to taste. Conversations layer over each other—someone's complaining about the heat, someone else is laughing about something I can't hear, there's the clink of forks on plates and the hiss of the griddle and underneath it all, the steady hum of Saturday morning in a town where everyone knows everyone.
I spot an empty stool at the counter and claim it before someone else does, sliding onto the cracked vinyl and immediately feeling the sweat on the back of my thighs. Elegant. Very dignified.
"Look who survived!" Sunny appears with a coffee pot, grinning. Her red lipstick is perfect despite the early hour. "Sit anywhere, honey. Though it looks like you already did."
I grab the menu even though I know what I'm getting—coffee and whatever's cheapest, maybe pie if I'm feeling reckless with funds I don't have. "Is it always this packed?"
"Every Saturday since 1987. Town tradition." She pours coffee without asking, the mug appearing in front of me like magic. "Everyone shows up, trades gossip, complains about the heat, goes home. You're officially part of the rotation now."
"Lucky me."
"You settling in okay at Ward's place?" The way she says it—Ward's place—makes it sound like everyone knows exactly where I'm living and has opinions about it.
"Yeah. It's good. The room's great. Holt's been really nice about everything."
"Mmhmm." She's smiling like she knows something I don't, which is deeply unsettling. "Nice. That's what we're calling it."
Before I can figure out what that means, someone slides onto the stool next to me without asking.
I turn and there's a girl—early twenties maybe, dark hair chopped short and choppy in a way that screams DIY kitchen scissors at midnight—wearing cutoff jean shorts that have seen better days and a faded band tee. Her eyeliner is sharp, wings so precise they could be used for geometry lessons, and she's got an architecture of piercings: three in one ear, two in the other, nose ring catching the light. She's grinning at me like we're already friends.
"So," she says, propping her chin on her hand. "Holt Ward. How's that going?"
I blink at her. "Who are you?"
"Maeve." She says it like I should've known. "I work at Bend Supply during the week, here on weekends, and I've been dying to meet you since you showed up. You're Scout, right? The new girl sleeping in Holt's bed?"
My face goes hot. "I'm not—he's my landlord. And my boss. That's it."
"Sure." She drags the word out. "That's why half the town has a betting pool going."
I choke on my coffee. Actually choke, coughing into my hand. "What?"
"Betting pools." Maeve flags down Sunny for her own coffee, completely unbothered by my crisis. "Mrs. Castellano's got two weeks. Mitch says a month. Rhea's convinced it already happened and you're just being discreet, which honestly, respect if true."
"Nothing happened!" Too loud. Several people at nearby tables glance over. I lower my voice, lean closer. "Nothing's happening. He gave me a room because I needed one. My car died. I'm working for rent. That's the entire story."
