“We’re always competing,” he said. “And I’m gracious enough to admit defeat when my best friend gets railed into next week by a man who looks like a walking fire hazard.”
I was still laughing when we reached the front door of Mabel’s, Beau pulling the door open and ushering us both through. I didn’t hesitate to make my way toward our usual booth, the restaurant pretty much empty while most regulars were in church. I’d only been here maybe atotal of five times tops, but it already felt familiar, with its red vinyl seats, checkered floor, and the smell of bacon and maple syrup clinging to every square foot.
Shane continued to treat the whole place with suspicion, taking a tense seat across from me while Beau slid in beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. Mabel came over a second later with three menus, eyeing me and Beau like we’d fulfilled a prophecy.
“What can I get for y’all this morning? The usual?”
I frowned. “I’ve only been here a handful of times?—”
“And you have a usual,” she said. “Eggs over easy, two sausage patties, and a biscuit with honey butter.”
Shane’s look of suspicion only deepened, and Mabel didn’t pretend not to notice. She popped her hip, chewing on her pen.
“You look like…” she paused. “Oatmeal. Strawberries and cream? With three slices of bacon on the side.”
Shane cocked his head. “…yes.”
“And Beau, you’ll have the scramble?”
“Mmhm.”
Mabel nodded like it was all predetermined, scribbled something down that might’ve just been for show, and walked off. Shane waited until she was out of earshot before leaning in across the table.
“Okay,” he whispered. “What the hell is going on?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this whole town. That lady just read my mind. I didn’t even open my mouth.”
Beau shrugged beside me, casual as ever. “That’s just Mabel.”
Shane gestured vaguely toward the rest of the restaurant. “Okay but it’s not just her. It’s the church, the rainbow flags, thevibe. I was ready for, like, Christian militiaenergy, and instead it feels like I wandered into a Twilight Zone episode about community healing.”
He didn’t say it like it was a bad thing. If anything, he sounded unnerved by hownot badit was.
I got that.
I’d felt the same way.
“You expected pitchforks?” I asked.
“I expected polite racism,” he said. “Passive-aggressive side-eyes. Maybe some deeply repressed sexual tension. I didn’t expect—” he waved toward the door, where a teenager with pink hair and a pierced septum walked in and got a wave from the cook—“this.”
Beau cracked a quiet smile. “We’re working on it.”
Shane glanced at him again, like he was trying to fit him into a mental model that kept coming up short. “You really grew up here?”
“Yep.”
“And stayed?”
Beau shrugged. “Didn’t have any reason to leave. Always got along with my family…would’ve missed ‘em too much.”
Shane looked like he wanted to press, but our food arrived, and he got distracted by the sight of his oatmeal—topped with a neat little spiral of strawberries and a perfect dusting of cinnamon. The bacon gleamed on a separate plate like it had been kissed by the gods.
He stared at it for a long beat.
“...Fuck me,” he muttered. “This looks incredible.”
