She’s older, maybe in her sixties, with silver hair pulled back and reading glasses perched on her head. Her cheeks are rosyfrom the heat of the kitchen. She has flour on her apron like she’s been in the middle of baking.
“Well, honey,” she says, voice warm as the air around me. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee and a minute to breathe.”
My eyes sting. I hate that kindness does that to me now, turns me into a cracked open thing.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, because that’s what I always say.
She doesn’t look convinced. “You can be fine after you sit down. Booth or counter?”
“Booth,” I manage.
She points toward a small two-top near the window. “Go on. I’ll be right with you.”
I slide into the booth and set my bag beside me. The vinyl seat squeaks. My hands are still cold, and I wrap them around themselves under the table.
A laminated menu sits in front of me, but I just stare at the little handwritten Valentine’s insert taped to it.
Strawberry cream pie. Heart-shaped biscuits. Love bug milkshakes.
It’s silly. It’s sweet. It feels like a different universe.
The woman comes over with a mug of coffee before I even order it and sets it down in front of me. “On the house until you tell me your name.”
My throat tightens again. “Wren.”
“Wren.” She smiles. “Pretty. I’m Mae.”
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice is too quiet.
Mae sits across from me like she has all the time in the world. Not in a creepy way. In a… human way. Like she sees me as a person, not a problem.
“You passing through?” she asks.
I hesitate. The truth feels dangerous. “I… I guess.”
Mae watches me for a beat, then nods like she understands more than I’m saying. “Well, you’re here now. Eat something.”
“I don’t have much money,” I blurt, then immediately regret it. I sound pathetic.
Mae waves a hand. “Coffee’s already down. Pancakes aren’t going to bankrupt me. Pick something.”
My stomach flips. “I can pay.”
“We’ll see,” she says, eyes kind but firm. “What do you do, Wren?”
The question lands differently than it would anywhere else. Like she’s not asking to judge me. Like she’s asking because she’s curious.
“I waitress,” I say. “Back home.”
Mae’s gaze flicks to my hands, to the way they keep clenching and unclenching. “You any good?”
A laugh threatens to slip out. It’s sharp and surprised. “I mean… I don’t get fired.”
Mae smiles wider. “That’s a start.”
I glance around the diner again, and that’s when I see it.
A help wanted sign in the window. Simple, handwritten.HELP WANTED.
