“Maisie, dear!” Granny Jo calls from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her cherry-printed apron. The sight of her immediately soothes my soul, like aloe vera on a sunburn. Her silver hair is wrapped into a tight bun, and the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepen when she smiles, which is often. Granny Jo has only gotten more wonderful with age.
I offer a tired smile as I step closer. “Morning, Granny Jo. Please tell me you have something that can put to rest the hunger monster inside me before it devours me.
“The usual?” She doesn’t even blink at my dramatics.
“Yes, please. And I’ll take a little extra for the kids.” My first graders get hangry with the ferocity of Vikings if snack time is delayed by even thirty seconds.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says with a twinkle in her eye that makes me wonder if she somehow knew that I was coming, thenshe gives me a knowing smile and disappears into the kitchen, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the checkerboard tiles.
I take a moment to glance around. Most of the tables are filled with the usual suspects—Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins sharing a crossword puzzle at the table by the door, Sheriff Huxley sipping coffee with a stack full of Granny Jo’s famous pancakes in front of him that would impress Mount Everest, the Spivey twins loudly debating which gas station has the best beef jerky, and Mr. Collins, the elderly gentleman whom I can’t look in the eye because every time I do I find myself on the receiving end of a creepy wink. The soundtrack of small-town America, breakfast edition.
But there’s also a stranger I haven’t seen before—a man sitting alone at the far booth, hunched over a plate of bagels, devouring them like he’s in a timed eating challenge. He wears a red Maplewood Springs Mudcats baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and—odd choice—aviator sunglasses. Who wears sunglasses indoors? Maybe he’s had Lasik. Or maybe he’s trying to make himself look cool not realizing he’s failing miserably. The Clark Kent disguise isn’t exactly subtle in a town where everybody knows the spoons of sugars everyone else takes in their coffee.
Whoever he is, he’s stuffing his cheeks full of bagels like a chipmunk, making my stomach rumble with envy. I better look away before I lose all self-control and tackle him for his breakfast. The headline “Local Teacher Arrested for Bagel Assault” would not look good on my performance review.
I slide into a booth by the window and pull out my planner, flipping to today’s lesson plan. Music and singing first (low chaos), then math with candy corn (high chaos), followed by a spring-themed read-aloud and crafts (dangerously moderate chaos, depending on glitter usage). First graders have twospeeds: adorable chaos gremlins and snack-time philosophers. I adore them.
Granny Jo returns with a plate of bagels crowned with generous dollops of cream cheese, plus a brown paper bag packed with extras. She sets everything down with a flourish. “Here you go, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Granny Jo.” I sink my teeth into the first warm, pillowy bite and practically taste heaven. The buttery perfection, the cream cheese, the tangy, rich, and smoother than any relationship I’d ever had flavor blasts away all my worries.
Granny Jo scoots into the seat across from me, her hands folded neatly. “So, how’ve you been holding up?”
Aside from my sister, she is the only person in town who knows the truth behind my breakup. One night after I’d moved back in with Mom and Dad, I’d shown up at the diner five minutes before closing, mascara streaked and clutching a box of tissues. She’d brewed me tea and listened—reallylistened—without once telling me I was overreacting or that everything will be all right . . . because it wasn’t at the time.
I take another bite with a smile. “Oh, you know. Just living the dream. Eating my feelings away one bagel at a time.”
Granny Jo chuckles, her features softening as she reaches across the table to pat my hand. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Maisie. Just remember that.”
I shrug, cheeks warm. “I’m fine, really. Besides, there’s nothing your bagel and coffee can’t fix.”
She stands, smoothing her apron. “Well, if anyone can turn lemons into sweet lemonade, it’s you, dear.”
As Granny Jo shuffles back to the kitchen, I lean back in my seat and dig into my comfort food. The taste is enough to almost take a girl off an emotional rollercoaster. Almost.
I’m mid-chew, blissfully lost in cream cheese and denial, when the bell above the diner door chimes again.
My eyes shoot up and I freeze, mouth hanging open as my brain flatlines. The half-masticated bagel in my mouth suddenly feels like cement.
Of all people to run into, why does it have to bethem?
Andy and Lindsey. Together. Holding hands. Looking like they stepped straight out of a Hallmark movie where the plot is all about flaunting your relationship in front of your ex.
The half-chewed mass of bagel threatens to become a choking hazard as my throat closes up faster than an erratic clam. I hunker down in the booth like a spy on a mission, praying that I might spontaneously develop invisibility powers. I swallow hard and begin to plan my escape, hopefully before they notice me.
I subtly slide lower in my seat, peering through the artificial fronds of the diner’s fake Ficus plant. If only it would magically grow six feet taller and create an impenetrable green barrier between me and my least favorite duo on planet Earth.
What is it that Chrissy used to say? She’d rather live on Mars than attend high school. It’s moments like these that now make me wish for the same.
Of all the times of day—why now? Why couldn’t they have stayed in their Pinterest-perfect bubble of wedding bliss and left me to my breakfast in peace?
My heart goes on a run as I peek over the edge of my booth seat again, watching them walk up to the counter. Lindsey is all pastel in a blush-pink sweater, her blonde hair falling in effortless tangles that I imagine are little snakes, like the head of Medusa. That breathy, sugar-sweet voice I now hate so much floats across the diner as she orders—likely something with zero carbs and extra self-righteousness.
As for Andy, he still looks like the world’s biggest jerk, albeit a well-dressed one. His brown hair is shorter now, and he’s sporting a button-down that I recognize because I bought it for him the Christmas before last. With their June wedding comingup, they’re the talk of the town, as evidenced by Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins offering their good wishes.
Granny Jo greets them with her usual warmth—nobody gets special treatment in her diner, not even backstabbing ex-best-friends and cheating exes. But as her eyes meet mine across the room, she offers a subtle tilt of her head toward the exit. The universal grandmotherly signal for “run while you can, dear.”
That’s my cue. Great looking out, Granny Jo!
