Kira slipped into the kitchen like she belonged there—which, at this point, she kind of did. She had on one of our branded diner T-shirts, tied at the waist, and she was holding a clipboard like it was an extension of her body.
“Hey,” she said, lightly tapping it against her leg. “The first table just ordered the chicken and waffles. You ready?”
I didn’t answer right away. I was too busy staring at the flat top like it might catch fire just to spite me.
“Landon,” she said, voice gentle now. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair. “I don’t know. I just—what if I mess it up? What if we crash today? What if people hate the food, or the orders get backed up, or I freeze, or everyone realizes this doesn’t live up to Dad’s diner?”
She stepped forward, slipping between me and the prep counter, forcing me to stop moving.
“You’re not going to mess up. You know what you’re doing, and so does everyone else in this diner. You’re ready for this.”
I shook my head. “I’m not my dad.”
“No. You’re you. And that’s exactly who this place needs. This was never supposed to be an exact replica of the next diner, just the next iteration of it.”
Thank God Kira was steady in all the ways I wasn’t. She was calm, clear-headed, and unshakable. Somehow, she always knew exactly where the center was, and more importantly, how to bring me back to it.
“You kept this place from falling apart before it even opened,” she continued. “You designed half the menu, trained the staff, and convinced your mom not to give up. You’re in this kitchen because you earned it, Landon. Not because you’re trying to be your dad, but because you’re ready to be you.”
The noise outside swelled—silverware clinking, someone calling for coffee, the low murmur of people who were here. For us. For this.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “What if I still mess it up?”
Kira smiled, slipping her hand into mine. “I highly doubt that. If you do, it’s just a mistake to learn from.”
I didn’t say anything. I just pulled her in and pressed my forehead to hers, closing my eyes for one solid second.
When I stepped back, I was breathing a little easier.
From the other side of the pass, one of the line cooks called out, “Tickets up!”
I turned to the line. “All right,” I said, rolling my shoulders back. “Let’s do this.”
Before I could say more, Mom popped her head into the kitchen, her hair in a frazzled bun and an apron dusted with flour tied around her waist.
“Table six is wobbly again,” she said, heading toward us like she was preparing for battle. Then she paused. “Everything okay back here?”
“I’ll go look at the table,” Kira offered.
Mom gave her a grateful smile. “I don’t know how we’d manage without you this weekend.”
Kira waved her off with a smile as she headed out the door. “I like it. It’s like riding a bike.”
Mom turned to me, brow raised.
“Everything’s fine,” I said, finally believing it. “We’ve got two dozen cinnamon rolls in the warmer, four pies prepped, but I need you to check that we have enough coins in the register.”
She nodded, impressed. “I can do that.” Halfway out the door, she smiled back at me. “You’re doing great, honey.”
One of the line cooks in the back snickered.
Not a great time to call a twenty-seven-year-old man honey.
The lunch rush hit faster than any of us were ready for.
By noon, quiet conversations had risen to a near-roar, and every booth was full. Orders flew in and out of the kitchen like clockwork, and I barely had time to refill the coffee before someone was waving me down for extra ketchup or asking about the pie flavors.
