We didn’t end with a fight. No slammed doors. Just two people who wanted different maps. She chased New York. Istayed here. She wanted skyscrapers. I wanted fried eggs and the smell of lemon Pledge on the counter.
Losing her hadn’t hurt like a stab. It hurt like frostbite. Slow, numbing, and permanent.
The crowd started to trickle out. I wiped the counter with more force than necessary. Levi stuck his head out of the kitchen.
“You good?”
“No.”
“Cool.”
He disappeared again.
I looked out the window. The town felt smaller. The diner felt quieter. My future felt like a countdown clock I hadn’t noticed until today.
Seven days. One diner. Zero love life.
I needed a miracle. Or at least someone willing to fake it with good hair and a decent signature.
Either way, I was screwed.
EMILY
Istepped into the Lighthouse Diner and got hit with a wave of sugar, bacon grease, and memory.
The bell over the door jingled. Same sound as five years ago. Same pitch. Same echo. The smell hadn’t changed either. Coffee. Toast. Salt air bleeding in through the cracks. But the place looked different.
The walls looked freshly painted. The jukebox was gone, replaced by a speaker near the ceiling playing an acoustic version of something I once danced to at a club in Manhattan. Probably with a cocktail in hand. Definitely with heels that didn’t ache yet.
A chalkboard hung behind the counter, the specials written in a loopy script that tugged at something in my chest. For a split second, I thought of Jason. His notes in the margins of my textbooks. The way he used to label leftovers in the fridge. I shook the thought away. No. It had to be Ms. Ophelia. She always wrote like that. Dreamy. Slanted. Like her pen wanted to dance instead of land.
My blazer stuck to the back of my arms. My heels clicked too loud on the floor. Two men at the window gave me a once-over between bites of pancake, then went back to eating.
I gripped the folder tighter. This was a job interview. Nothing more. I’d sent in the application like everyone else. I’d gotten the interview fair and square. Ms. Ophelia ran the diner. This was her place. Not his.
I stepped farther inside and tried to keep my shoulders square.
Then I heard the voice.
“Two chocolate chip pancakes, extra syrup, and tell Carla if she starts crying again, she’s bussing her own table.”
The sound landed in my spine.
I turned before I could stop myself.
Jason.
He stood behind the counter with a towel slung over one shoulder and a plate in each hand. The sleeves of his flannel were pushed up to his elbows, showing forearms thick with muscle and faint scars that spoke to years of work. His shoulders filled the space now, solid and sure, the kind of strength earned one shift at a time. His red hair still flopped into his eyes, stubborn as ever. He moved with an easy confidence, all grounded heat and purpose.
He looked older but not in the way that hurt. He looked settled. Like time had shaped him instead of wearing him down. He set the plates down, nodded at someone out of sight, and reached for the coffee pot.
I wanted to disappear into the floor.
My brain screamed at me to turn around. Walk out. Change my name. Move to Vermont. Anything.
Instead, I stood there like I’d forgotten how feet worked.
Jason looked up. His smile dropped. The mug in his hand hovered mid-pour, frozen in place. His eyes locked on mine, and the diner fell away. No chatter. No clatter. Just silence pressing against my ribs.
