Then my phone buzzed.
I ignored it. Kept pouring, flipping, nodding, dodging.
It buzzed again. Same number.
I checked the screen. Aunt Ophelia. My stomach dropped straight into my socks.
I muttered something I didn’t want my grandmother to hear, handed the coffee pot to Fiona, my server on duty, and said, “Cover me. If I don’t come back, I’ve finally run off to join a cult.”
Fiona blinked. “Okay. But I’m still clocking out at five.”
I ducked into the back hallway. The walls here had been yellow once. Now they looked like tea-stained paper. I leaned against the ancient utility sink and picked up.
“Jason,” Aunt Ophelia said, “how’s my favorite single nephew?”
“You only have one nephew.”
“Exactly. So, how’s the engagement going?”
I closed my eyes. “Nonexistent.”
“Ah.” She sounded pleased. “Then this is the perfect time to remind you: next week marks five years. Five. Cinco. And as per our incredibly legal, emotionally manipulative agreement, I will sell the diner if you’re not in a relationship by then.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I just haggled down a ghost real estate agent in Portland. You think I’m bluffing?”
My jaw clenched. “I’ve kept this place running. We’re profitable. We’re the only diner within thirty miles that still serves liver and onions. I’m even hiring a marketing director to grow the business. Doesn’t that count for something?”
"It counts for charm," she said through the phone. "But I need something steadier. Roots. Legacy. Matching his-and-herscoffee mugs. Real romance." She paused. "I know this might sound cruel, Jason, but trust me, this is for your own good. Believe me, you’ll thank me later."
“I can’t be with someone just to save the diner.”
“Chop Chop,” she said. “See you next week.”
She hung up.
I stood there for a long second, staring at the mop bucket like it might provide answers. Then I went back out to the dining room.
Everything looked the same, but now it all felt like it might break. The pie display flickered. The napkin dispensers looked smug. I swear the floor creaked louder just to mock me.
“Everything okay?” Fiona asked, balancing three plates like a magician.
“Yup,” I said. “I just need a girlfriend in seven days, or I lose the only good thing in my life. Normal Tuesday.”
She blinked. “You want to date me?”
“I’ve seen your creepy doll collection. Hard pass.”
She snorted and walked off.
I leaned against the counter and stared through the front window. The lighthouse stood tall in the distance, unbothered like it always was. Maybe I should’ve dated that.
Every attempt at dating in this town had felt like trying on pants that didn’t fit. Too stiff. Too fake. Too clingy. No one ever got it. No one ever felt right.
Except Emily.
I glanced at the counter stool closest to the pie case. Hers. She always sat there. Always stole my fries. Always fixed the chalkboard sign when my handwriting looked like I had a seizure mid-slogan.
