By the time we reach the outskirts of Ashby, I’ve already slipped halfway back into the girl I used to be. Quieter. Smaller. Molded into something useful.
The front doorsticks a little as I push it open. The living room is cluttered—laundry baskets half-filled, snack wrappers on the coffee table. One of my brothers is shouting at a video game in the other room. They’re fourteen now, somehow tallerand louder than I remember. Months away and they look like they’ve grown into entirely new people.
My mom’s voice carries from the kitchen, sharp and fast, punctuated by the sound of a drawer slamming shut.
She rounds the corner mid-sentence, phone propped against her shoulder. Her eyes land on me.
“You’re early,” she says in greeting, brows rising. “Thought you said next week?”
I shrug. “Plans changed.”
She shifts the phone back to her ear. “Let me call you back.” Then to me, without missing a beat: “Well, can you finish checking inventory before lunch rush?”
I nod. She doesn’t wait for an answer before turning back to the kitchen.
The diner looks exactlythe same. Fluorescent lights, smudged menus, a stack of unopened mail beside the register. I grab the battered clipboard from its hook and start down the aisle, checking what’s low—sodas in the front fridge, creamers, the last sliver of lemon pie no one bothered to replace. The motions come back fast, like muscle memory.
Once the list is filled, I slide behind the counter and wake up the clunky desktop. The ancient monitor hums to life, and I start translating the scribbles into the order form, my fingers falling into the old rhythm—quantities, vendors, restock notes.
The bell above the door chimes a few times. I don’t look up.
“We out of pie again?” my mom calls from the kitchen.
“We’re fine,” I reply without checking.
My brothers come in at some point—one asking me for a soda, the other wanting twenty bucks. I hand over both withoutprotest. My father walks through the back door later and nods in my direction, eyes already fixed on the fryer.
No one asks how I’ve been. They only ask for what they want from me.
I text Nathaniel again.
Long day. Can’t talk now but I’m okay.
NATHANIEL
I figured you’d be tired. Please rest tonight. Don’t push yourself too hard.
His response is gentler than I deserve.
I tuck the phone away quickly, like holding it any longer might cause me to break down in front of my family.
The rest of the afternoon blurs into motion—refills, receipts, wiped counters. I keep moving because it’s easier than thinking. It isn’t until the tables are empty and the sky outside has faded to dusk that I let myself reach for him again.
A message is waiting on my phone.
NATHANIEL
Eat something decent, Olivia. Please.
Then another.
NATHANIEL
I miss you. It doesn’t feel like home without you.
I reread it three times before I can breathe normally.
I shift my weight, leaning back against the wall, and let my thumb hover over the screen before I respond.
