“That sounds about right,” I say, shaking my head in recognition, because panic seems like the only rational response to suddenly being responsible for everything your family built.
She chuckles, but the sound has exhaustion written all over it, the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from carrying too much for too long. “I didn’t really have a choice, you know? My sister needed me, and this place—” She gestures around the diner with her free hand, encompassing the worn booths and faded photographs and the steady hum of conversation. “This place needed to stay open because it’s. . .it’s my parents. It’s whatthey built. It’s all we have left of them. Plus, this town relies on this place in ways I’m still figuring out.”
The words hit me hard, stirring all the fears about inheritance and responsibility festering for weeks.
I nod slowly, understanding flooding through me with uncomfortable clarity. “Okay, yeah. I get that. I really, really get that.”
Bea studies my face, as if she’s reading something there that confirms whatever suspicions she might have had about the similarities in our situations. “If you ever need someone to talk to about. . . all of it, you can come here. I don’t have a lot of free time, but I’ve got ears and an endless supply of coffee, and I’m very good at listening while pretending I’m not eavesdropping on everyone else’s conversations.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s a generous skill set.”
“Survival,” she says simply, without drama or self-pity, just the matter-of-fact acknowledgment of someone who’s learned to adapt to circumstances she never planned for.
Then she straightens, her professional demeanor snapping back into place like armor. “Food will be out in a few minutes.”
As she walks away to check on her other tables, I watch her go, noting the way she moves with purpose despite the obvious exhaustion, the way she smiles at each customer like they matter. Something in my chest eases another fraction. I know my problems haven’t gotten any smaller, but there’s now one more person in this town who understands what it feels like to be handed a legacy you didn’t ask for and told to make it work anyway.
I stare out the window for a long moment, watching the people of Ruby Springs go about their daily lives, and let myself marinate in everything I’ve learned over the past few weeks. The failing wards, the desperate hope in people’s eyes, the weight of being an Anchor, the stubborn refusal of my magic to cooperate,all of it swirls together in my mind like ingredients in a recipe I don’t know how to make.
Maceo’s voice pulls me back from my brooding. “You’re quiet.”
I blink, refocusing on his face. “I’m thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” he says, deadpan, but there’s affection in his eyes.
I snort. “You’re right. Let me stop immediately and just exist in blissful ignorance.”
He doesn’t smile at the joke the way he usually does. Instead, his gaze stays focused, serious, like he’s trying to read something in my expression.
“What’s going on in your head, Keisha?”
I look down at my coffee, at the faint swirl of cream I added but haven’t stirred in yet, watching it spiral slowly through the dark liquid. My frustration rises up like it’s been waiting for permission to spill over, all the accumulated disappointment and self-doubt of the past two weeks suddenly demanding to be acknowledged.
“I’m tired,” I admit, the words coming out more raw than I intended. “I’m tired of trying so hard and getting nothing back. I’m tired of reading all these dusty books like the answer is going to magically leap off the page and punch this curse right out of me. I’m tired of meditating until my legs go numb and all I can feel is my own irritation growing stronger. I’m tired of everyone being so hopeful and patient when I still feel like. . .like I’m standing on the wrong side of a glass wall, watching everyone else live in a world I can’t quite reach.”
Maceo listens without interrupting, without offering solutions or platitudes, and that patience is its own kind of safety net.
When I finally look up, his eyes are softer than usual, filled with something that might be understanding or compassionor just the simple acceptance of someone who’s seen enough struggles to know they can’t all be fixed with good intentions.
“You’re not a lost cause,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I mutter, because he’s never had to sit with the particular brand of failure that comes from being magically defective.
He leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on the table, and his voice drops just enough that it feels like an intimate conversation despite being in a crowded diner. “You think I’m saying it just to make you feel better?”
I hesitate, because the truth is I don’t know what I’m used to anymore, don’t know how to calibrate my expectations when it comes to people’s motivations for being kind to me.
“I’m saying it because I can feel you,” he continues, like he’s stating a fundamental law of physics. “Not just your stress or your fear or your frustration. You. Your essence, your magic, it’s all there, under everything else. I’m surprised by just how much of it I can sense, actually.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. “Sir says that too.”
“Sir’s right,” Maceo says, like the idea of agreeing with an opinionated cat is the most natural thing in the world.
I huff a laugh despite myself. “That cat is never going to let me live down the fact that he’s always right about everything.”
Maceo’s mouth quirks into a smile. “I wish I could hear just how smug he’s going to be about it.”
I shake my head, but my eyes burn a little with the threat of tears I refuse to shed in public. “I just. . . I don’t want to fail them.”
