I didn’t move.
The voices around me blurred into a single low hum. My brain replayed the scene again and again.
Emily walking in. Emily seeing me. Emily pretending not to flinch. And then Emily turning to go.
She’d kept her voice so steady, like she’d practiced it on the drive here. Her shoes had clicked across the tile with clean finality, and then the bell above the door had sealed it.
She came back just to leave again.
I couldn’t make it make sense.
Levi popped his head out from the kitchen, apron stained with something orange. “You gonna stand there and brood all day, or do we need to call in an understudy?”
Fiona raised an eyebrow. “He’s in his tragic hero arc. Let him finish.”
“Tragic hero?” I said. My voice came out rough, like I hadn’t used it in hours. “I’m not?—”
Levi’s voice drifted out from the kitchen. “You gonna go get her or what? It’s not like anyone else good applied for the position.”
That did it.
I dropped the towel on the counter and bolted out the door.
The sun hit my face. I scanned the sidewalk, heart pounding hard enough to feel stupid. She hadn’t made it to her car yet.
Good. I still had time to ruin this properly.
I stumbled over faster than I meant to.
Her face closed off the second she saw me.
I raised one hand and stopped a few feet away. “Wait. Please.”
She folded her arms. “If you’re here to tell me I was great but you’re going with someone else for the position, don’t bother.”
“I’m not,” I said. “You have the job. If you want it.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
I nodded. “The position is real. And you’re qualified. Overqualified, probably. The job is yours if you want it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one,” I said. Then my brain betrayed me.
I saw Aunt Ophelia’s face clear as day, heard her voice reminding me of that deadline she’d set. Be in a real relationship by the end of the month, or she’d sell the diner. My diner. The place I’d poured everything into. The clock was ticking. If I didn’t figure this out soon, I wasn’t just going to lose a building. I was going to lose the one thing that still felt like home.
I ran a hand through my hair. “Actually. You’re going to hate this.”
“That’s promising.”
I looked at her. Really looked. Her shoulders were stiff. Her grip on the folder was tight, knuckles gone pale. She wasn’t in the mood for games.
“Remember that school play we did?” I said.
Her brow furrowed. “The Hungry Caterpillar? We were, what, eight?”
“Yeah. We pretended to be something we weren’t.”
