Ramona could only nod as it became apparent—embarrassingly, mortifyingly apparent—that Dylan had no memory of Ramona Riley.
Granted, they’d never shared their names. At the time, Dylan had thought it would be fun and mysterious to keep their namesfrom each other. At least, their real names. She’d called Ramona “Cherry” for the night, because Ramona had worn a tee with a cherry pattern all over it, and Ramona had called Dylan “Lollipop,” because Dylan had had a green apple sucker in her mouth when she’d first approached Ramona on the beach, her lips tinged bright green.
Moreover, Ramona was one of those people who looked nothing like her younger self. Her hair had thickened with puberty, loose curls forming in her once stick-straight tresses, and she’d been a wiry kid, growing too tall, too fast. Now, she was wavy-haired and fat—a word she didn’t use negatively at all, just as a descriptor of her curvy body—and her face was covered in freckles that had also increased in number as she’d gotten older.
On top of all of that, she’d told a teenage Dylan that she too was a summer person, just visiting with her family. With her mom and dad and baby sister, a whole family. A normal family who vacationed by the lake every summer. She’d wanted to be someone different—not Ramona Riley of Clover Lake, whose own mother didn’t even want her—but someone else entirely, someone carefree and normal, whose biggest worry was whether or not she and her best friend would be in the same homeroom class come fall.
So, no, maybe there was no reason Dylan should remember her at all. She wasDylan Monroe. Child of icons, Hollywood starlet, everyone’s favorite villain, the wild girl on all the gossip sites, dater of gorgeous actors and musicians. The evening they had once shared a million years ago was like a nanosecond compared to all the things Dylan Monroe had done and seen and been.
“Right,” Ramona said, more to herself than to Dylan and Owen. “Right, well…” She swallowed around the sudden knot in her throat, a bowling ball by the feel of it, and pulled her hand from Dylan’s.
“How can I help you, Ms. Monroe?” she asked once she was sure her voice would come out steady.
“Oh, god, please call me Dylan,” Dylan said, smiling and tucking her hands into the back pockets of her light-wash jeans. She wore a cream-colored muscle tee that readCool Bananaon the front, along with a pair of rugged brown boots, pants cuffed just above the laces. “I’m just excited to dive in.” She waved at the dining room, eyes glittering with intrigue and a little trepidation.
“Have you ever worked in the service industry before?” Ramona asked, even though, of course, she knew the answer.
Dylan pressed her tongue to her top lip, then laughed. “Um, no, I can’t say that I have.” Her cheeks went a little red, as though the admission embarrassed her.
“Well, it’s pretty simple,” Ramona said, but then her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She didn’t like to leave texts unanswered, as it could be Olive, which Owen knew full well. “Excuse me one second.”
She fished out her phone, rolling her eyes when she saw the notification on the screen.
April:Dylan fucking Monroe is in your diner??????
She tucked her phone away again without answering, despite the perpetual buzzes against her ass. Damn small towns. News didn’t just travel fast, it moved like light, zinging through the atmosphere quicker than a blink.
“Sorry,” she said. “Where were we?”
“You were getting acquainted and then getting Dylan here an apron,” Owen said. “I’ll leave you to it.” He shook Dylan’s hand one more time, then whispered, “Don’t let her spill hot coffee on any customers, I beg you,” in Ramona’s ear before meandering deeper into the dining room to talk with patrons.
Ramona huffed a breath. A lawsuit would serve him right, springing Dylan Monroe on her like this. Not to mention the fact she’d be losing tips from her very generous regulars in section four.
She glanced at Dylan, who was still watching her with an interested expression. Ramona squirmed a bit, fluffed her fringe andadjusted her pink short-sleeve blouse, tiny lipstick tubes printed on the cotton, buttoned all the way to her neck. Her hair was in a high ponytail today, her dark jeans high-waisted and cuffed over a pair of high-top white sneakers.
“Um,” Ramona said. “So…first things first…”
But then, for the life of her, she couldn’t think of what was first, what was second or third either. She had no plan, no strategy here. She felt like a fumbling teenager.
“An apron,” Dylan said.
“Yes,” Ramona said, snapping her fingers. “An apron.”
She turned and headed toward the back, nodding for Dylan to follow her. In the employee break room—a large closet, really, with a few lockers and a mini-fridge filled with bottled water and Gatorade—Ramona plucked a plain sage-green apron from the wall hook, hoping it was clean, and handed it over to Dylan.
Dylan held it between her thumb and forefinger for a few seconds, long enough that Ramona wondered if she was going to have to teach her how to tie it on, but she finally slipped it over her head and, after a few struggles with the strings, tied it around her waist.
Ramona’s phone buzzed against her butt again. And again.
She sighed, plucking it out of her pocket.
April:You’re training her????
Ramona:Ok when did you plant cameras in the café and did you see when I picked my nose last week?
April:Can’t believe you didn’t wash your hands after
Ramona laughed, eyeing Dylan as she tried to figure out what to do with the long apron strings.
