A waitress paused beside him. “You okay, boss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
Jason didn’t answer. He set the mug down with a solid clunk and stepped out from behind the counter.
“Emily,” he said.
I gave a tight smile. “Hi.”
The air thickened. Plates clinked. Voices rose and fell around us, but everything felt smaller. Tilted.
“I didn’t realize you were—” I stopped. “I’m here about the marketing position.”
Jason blinked. “Right. The job. Of course. I saw your résumé and just figured you were a different Emily Carter.”
“Nope. It’s me.”
He looked like someone had just handed him a pie and then shoved his face in it.
“I thought Ms. Ophelia still ran the place,” I said. My voice pitched too high. “She always said she’d only retire for something dramatic. Like alien abduction.”
“She moved to Maine,” Jason said. “She and Mike bought a place near Bar Harbor.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good for her.”
“She’s happy.” He shrugged. “They have goats now.”
“Of course they do.”
My stomach twisted. The past I carried didn’t match what I saw in front of me. I had packed up that version of us. Tucked it in a box labeled ‘Bittersweet’ and shoved it deep. But here he was, standing behind the counter of a place I used to dream about leaving, wearing that same look he wore when things got complicated.
“So,” he said. “You’re looking for a job here?”
I nodded. “Temporarily. Just trying to get back on my feet.”
His face stayed still, but his shoulders drew in. Polite. Careful.
My resolve slipped.
I clutched the folder tighter. “I can see this probably isn’t a good idea. Too much history. Too awkward. I should’ve checked who was running the place.”
Jason opened his mouth.
“Thanks for your time,” I said before he could get a word out.
I turned. My heels smacked against the tile with every step. Loud. Obvious.
I didn’t look back. My chest hurt, but I kept my spine straight.
The bell over the door jingled behind me. I walked out into the salt air and told myself I didn’t feel anything.
Even though I did.
JASON
Istood with the dish towel clenched in my fist.
The diner buzzed around me. Forks scraped plates. A kid two booths down wailed, “My toast is touching my eggs.”
Fiona leaned over the register. “Jason. Hey. Table four wants to know if ‘spiritual awakening level spicy’ is a joke or an actual option.”
