“You want me to take you home instead? Make sure you’re okay?”
I wave him off, irritable over his worry. “I’m not dead yet, for crissake. Go back to the game. I’ll be fine.”
The doctor’s warning is still echoing in my head as I leave The Retreat and slide into the club’s car. Rest now, or regret it later.
Hell of a choice. I lean back, buckle up, and tell myself the same thing I told Wyatt. I’ll be fine.
A few tests. A forced vacation. A short break to “take it easy.”
Preventive medicine.
What’s the worst that could happen?
CHAPTER 2
ELLA
“Order up! Two anytime breakfast specials with extra bacon for table six!”
I grab the steaming plates from the pass, doing my signature move where I balance them on one arm while snagging the coffee pot with the other. It’s not graceful, but it gets the job done. After five years of waitressing, I’m essentially a caffeinated ninja.
Sedona’s Red Rock Diner is absolutely slammed today, which means good tips but also means I’m probably going to smell like bacon grease for the rest of my natural life. Not that I’m complaining. Bacon grease is basically the perfume of success in the food service industry.
“Coming right up, gentlemen!” I sing out, weaving between tables like I’m competing in some weird Olympic sport. The two guys at table six are clearly locals. Paint-spattered work shirts, the kind of deep exhaustion that comes from starting work before sunrise, which is mandatory when you work construction in Arizona.
“Fresh off the griddle,” I say, setting down their plates. “I convinced Tony to give you extra hash browns because honestly? You both look like you’ve earned it today.”
The younger guy looks up with genuine surprise. “Extra hash browns?”
“Absolutely. Anyone who’s working outside in that heat deserves all the carbs we can legally serve.”
“You always this optimistic?” the older guy asks, grinning at me.
“It’s a medical condition,” I tell him solemnly. “Chronic cheerfulness. Very serious. My mother says I was born smiling, which actually sounds super creepy when you think about it.”
Okay, that was probably too much information for someone who just wants to eat his eggs in peace, but sue me—I like making people laugh. Life’s too short to pretend you’re cooler than you actually are.
I’m topping off coffee mugs and mentally calculating how many more tables I need to turn before my break when I spot my best friend, Lisa, waving me over with what I’ve come to recognize as her “Houston, we have a problem” face.
Great. The espresso machine is either broken again, or someone complained about my “aggressive friendliness,” or, God forbid, someone found another hair in their scrambled eggs. I keep telling Tony he’s got to start wearing a hair net. Please let it be the espresso machine.
“What’s up?” I ask, sidling up to the coffee station where Lisa’s frantically pressing buttons like she’s trying to defuse a bomb.
“It’s making that noise again. You know, the one that sounds like a dying whale mixed with a garbage disposal.”
“Ah, the symphony of broken dreams.” I give the machine a gentle pat. “There, there, old girl. We’ve all been there.”
Lisa doesn’t laugh at my machine-whispering, which is concerning because Lisa laughs at everything. She once snorted iced tea when I told her about the time I said ‘love you too’ to the pizza delivery guy because I was on the phone with my mom.
“El, can we talk during our break? It’s kind of important.”
The way she says “important” makes my heart sink a little. In my experience, nothing good ever starts with “we need to talk” unless it’s followed by “about the big raise you’re getting” or “about the castle you just inherited in Scotland.”
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual while mentally preparing for disaster. “Let me just charm Tony into fixing this machine and we’ll grab lunch.”
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of coffee refills and small talk, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to change. And not in the good way, like when they fixed the freezer door so it stops trying to amputate our fingers. More like in the way that makes you want to hide under your covers and pretend the world doesn’t exist.
By noon, we’ve escaped to our usual booth in the back, armed with turkey clubs and iced tea. Lisa’s doing that thing where she arranges her chips in perfect little rows, which is basically her version of stress eating.
