Eliza: I’ll be the one pretending not to judge.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, the diner suddenly feeling a little brighter, a little warmer. Lunch—at the gazebo, with burgers and extra pickles—was officially a thing.
“I’m glad she said yes,” Grandma said mildly from behind the counter.
I looked up. “I haven’t told you anything yet.”
She lifted her phone, already locking the screen. “Her grandma texted me,” she said, like this explained everything. “She’s happy too.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself, and went to grab the coffee pot.
Grandma stayed until nearly noon, offering steady backup and casual, yet hilarious chit-chat. The customers loved her, and I hoped she’d keep spending her time here. I glanced around the dining room, watching faces I was beginning to know by heart. There was comfort in the hum of routine, in the familiarity of the regulars who nodded at me over mugs of coffee, in the easy rhythm of people coming and going. It struck me then how much my world had changed, yet how much I depended on these small certainties to keep myself steady.
Now, the lunch rush had wound down, and the diner buzzed with the quieter rhythm of silverware on plates and the occasional burst of laughter from the corner booth. I double-checked the kitchen—prepped, cleaned, stocked—and handed things over to my staff.
I didn’t usually duck out mid-day, but this wasn’t any lunch.
This wasEliza, and I couldn’t wait to get to know her better.
I pulled two burgers off the grill myself—one with cheddar and extra pickles for her, one with pepper jack and grilled onions for me. I boxed them carefully with a side of curly fries and grabbed the cherry pie milkshake I’d promised her and a Coke for myself.
Lois was spending the afternoon with my grandpa as she would do whenever I was working, which meant I didn’t have to worry about dog hair in the milkshake or a nose smudged against the takeout bag as we ate. Tilly’s first day of Pre-K was almost done, and I needed to make sure I wrapped up lunch in time to pick her up. Every other day, my grandparents would take care of pickup and babysitting until I finished up at the diner—but today was mine. I packed everything into the carryout bag and paused, my hand resting on the back counter.
I hadn’t spent much time around anyone like Eliza in years--with any woman, actually. I was still a little cautious after Tilly’s mom, and how we ended up wanting such vastly different things. But the idea of seeing Eliza again made me smile. Just thinking about her quick wit, the way she rolled her eyes when I teased her, the little laughs we’d share whenever we ran into each other.
It was simple, really. Lunch together, maybe an hour or so of banter, good food, and seeing what happened. I told myself that was more than enough for now.
I grabbed the bag, took a breath, and headed out the back door into the crisp winter air to meet her.
Chapter 6
Eliza
Istared at the to-go cup in my hand like it might give me the answer to life’s most pressing question: what the hell was I doing?
“You’re going to lunch,” my grandmother said, hanging her coat on the hook by the back door and grabbing an apron. “Not walking into battle.”
She could pull off a glittery cardigan and a matching knit beret like she was strutting onto a Paris runway instead of just running the Coffee Cabin. She always looked cute and fancy—her outfits were as bold as her personality, and she never missed a chance to add a little sparkle, both to her clothes and her words. Sassy didn’t begin to cover it; she could make me laugh even when I was terrified, tossing out jokes and encouragement like confetti at a parade. Maybe that’s why I told her all about my date with Nate.
“Says the woman who used to wear combat boots to disco night,” I muttered, tightening the scarf around my neck. “I’ve seen the pictures.”
“That was fashion. This is flirting. Try to have fun.”
I tried to steady my nerves, swirling the cup as if the movement could stir up some courage. My reflection in thewindow looked uncertain, cheeks flushed from both the cold and anticipation. Grandma’s words echoed in my ears—reminding me this was supposed to be fun, not a test I could pass or fail. I pressed my lips together, determined not to let anxiety steal the whole afternoon.
She shooed me out the door with a wink and a “Go get him, tiger,” before sliding behind the espresso machine like she owned the place. Technically, she didn’t anymore; she’d given it to me. But she and the staff at The Honeybrook Inn had run it for years, and in many ways, it would always be hers.
I still couldn’t believe I’d told her where I was going—that I was meeting Nate and that it wasn’t a big deal, so she’d better not make a thing of it.
The words had practically strangled me on the way out of my mouth. I’d sworn her to secrecy with the kind of dramatic gravitas normally reserved for mafia confessions.
“You breathe a word of this toanyone, and I’ll start putting decaf in your morning espresso,” I’d warned.
Her gasp had been appropriately horrified. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Now here I was, halfway down the street with my heart threatening to beat straight out of my chest.
