by Melody Anne
Around me, the life of the diner goes on as usual. People crowd the doorway. Servers hurry by, carrying pitchers of sweet tea and delivering orders. Several patrons lounge in booths, rubbing their stomachs as clean plates sit discarded in front of them.
My gaze drifts to the dent in the counter where I banged a rolling pin after messing up a piecrust. I spot the doodles I scribbled on the wall in the prep area. The tile grout under my feet is stained from when I spilled beet juice.
When I refocus my attention, my father’s prattling on about how folks have been begging for my recipes. “Just the other day Gertrude Firestone commented how she misses your four-napkin Sloppy Joes,” he says, straightening a pair of salt and pepper shakers. “And none of the regulars like my version of your mother’s peach cobbler as much as yours.”
My heart drops to my stomach as anger rises up. It happens anytime my mother is mentioned. Someday I’ll stop being surprised by it.
I have few memories of my mother, each one fragmented and fuzzy, as if I’m seeing them through a glass Coke bottle. I recall skin that smelled like honeysuckle, the soft swish of her apron, and long, graceful legs gliding about the kitchen.
I used to miss her in a bone-deep aching kind of way. When I was younger, I’d imagine what her voice sounded like. Soft and gentle as a whisper? Or maybe bright and lyrical with hints of mischief. Either way, I’d pretend I could hear it in my head, keeping me company, guiding me. “That one looks delicious,” her voice would say, as I flipped through the pages of a cookbook. “Or maybe try the recipe with the clementines instead.” No matter the task, her voice followed.
At night, in the silence, I’d curl up in my twin bed and wish she were there next to me, combing her fingers through my hair and humming pretty sounds until I drifted off into dreams. It was easier than wondering what I’d done wrong to make her disappear all those years ago and never return.
But as I got older I realized I couldn’t miss someone I didn’t remember.
“Time to prep for the dinner rush,” my father says, ripping me from my thoughts. “Go get washed up. There’s an apron for you in the back room. The carrots need chopping.”
My chest tightens. Only my father can make me feel like everything I’ve worked so hard for is slipping away. I squeeze my eyes shut and force deep, steadying breaths into my lungs.
“You coming, baby girl?” my father calls over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen.
He expects me to follow. I don’t. I can’t. I may have been raised in this place, but that doesn’t mean I belong here now. Instead I make a beeline for the exit, careful not to knock into anyone or anything on my way outside. I don’t want to add another mark. I’ve already left too many.
TWO
I COLLAPSE ONTO the rocking bench that’s adorned the diner’s entrance for as long as I’ve been alive. Terra cotta pots overflowing with flowers dot the sidewalk. Burying my face in my hands, I rub my eyes. Any moment now I expect my father to start hollering or storm out here to drag me back inside.
“Well, hell’s bells, if it isn’t Lillie Claire Turner in the flesh,” says a voice that immediately gets my attention.
My gaze locks on a familiar face twisting into a broad smile. “Wes!” He pulls me into a bear hug and swings me around until everything is a blur. A wave of nostalgia washes over me.
Wesley Blake may be my oldest friend, but most of the time he acts like a tormenting older brother. We share the same birthday—Wes two years older—and he never lets me forget it.
He moved from Tennessee into the house down the street from my father’s when I was four. After a misunderstanding over the ice cream truck’s last Creamsicle, we quickly became inseparable. Together we embarked on adventures in his backyard tree house, built forts using the diner’s tables and chairs, and dreamed of conquering the world. Wes has been a welcome thorn in my side ever since.
He also happens to be best friends with Nick.
Wes places my feet on the ground. I lean back and take a good look at him. He’s bigger, stronger, more solid than before, but his kiwi-green eyes, curly brown hair, and dimples are still the same.
“Damn, it’s good to see you, Jelly Bean,” he says in his slow, lazy drawl. Wes gave me the nickname when I dressed up as a tutti-frutti jelly bean for Halloween in fifth grade and it stuck. “What’re you doin’ here? I thought giraffes would learn to fly before I ever saw you back at the Spoons.”
“My father faked an emergency.”
Wes furrows his brow. “What kind of emergency?”
“He led me to believe he was being rushed into surgery when it’s actually scheduled for three weeks from now.”
“That’s typical Old Man Jack for you,” he says with a laugh.
I nod. My father’s like a whisk, always whipping up trouble. “But does he have to be so underhanded about it?”
Wes cocks his head to the side and gives me a sly grin. “You’re the dumbass who fell for it again.”
I scoff, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Come on, Jelly Bean. Jack’s been pulling these stunts for years. Remember when he made us volunteer at that high school bake sale while he went fishing? You were so pissed I think you actually grew horns.”
“Can you blame me?” I say. “He signed us up for that stupid thing after I specifically told him I’d rather eat liver. Then he conveniently forgot to mention it until the morning of the event.”
“At least we got a Chubby Bunny contest out of it.”
I laugh. “And then you threw up marshmallows all over the gym floor. Mr. Sherwood almost murdered you.”
“That’s better than the time we got kicked outta 7-Eleven for destroying the candy aisle. I thought for sure the owner was going to send the cops after us.”
“He did send the cops after us. We hid in your Jeep behind that Fancy Fingers nail salon.”
Wes shakes his head. “I forgot about that.”
“So what’s with the outfit?” I ask. He’s dressed head-to-toe in blue and red Southern Methodist University Mustang gear.
He flashes his dimples. “You’re actually looking at the new linebackers coach for the football team. Of course, you’d know this already if we talked more often.” He tugs on my earlobe until I slap his hand away. Then, in typical Wesley Blake style, he says with an exaggerated sniff and quivering lip, “We don’t call each other. We don’t write. My heart’s crushed, Jelly Bean.”
When I first moved to Chicago we kept in near-constant contact, but as time progressed and our lives drifted apart, our communications drifted as well. Now Wes and I only exchange texts and phone calls every so often; our last conversation was almost six months ago.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been too long.”
“It’s okay. I get it,” he says. “You can make up for it by eating a slice of pie with me on this bench.”
I laugh. Wes has never been one to hold a grudge, not even when I threw his favorite old-fashioned Leather Head football into White Rock Lake because he wouldn’t share his Starbursts with me. Instead, he waded into the smelly, murky water to retrieve the waterlogged mass, then apologized as he climbed out and offered me the candy anyway.
“Deal,” I say, smiling.
Bumping my shoulder, he says, “Stay here. I shall return with the goods,” then walks inside the diner.
Reclaiming my seat, I lean my head against the weathered wood and rock the bench back and forth, the old joints creaking. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of grass shavings mixed with freshly brewed coffee. Somewhere down the street a motorcycle engine rumbles to life.
Wisps of hair have escaped my bun and cling to the nape of my neck. October in Dallas is anything but cool. Some years autumn gets passed over altogether, jumping straight from a sweltering summer into a mild winter. The leaves never even have a chance to change color before the tree branches are bare and the surrounding lawns and sidewalks are crowded with their decaying remains.
The hinges on
the diner door squeal as Wes’s head pokes out. I smile as he walks toward me with a piece of pecan pie in each hand.
“Scoot your butt,” he says, tapping my leg with his shoe.
I slide over, the boards scratching my skin. He plops down next to me, and for the next few minutes, the only sounds are forks scraping across porcelain and the steady creaking as we rock slowly back and forth.
The first time we ate pie on this bench was the day Wes’s parents finalized their divorce, a couple of weeks shy of his junior peewee football tryouts. He showed up at the diner, cheeks wet and shoulders slumped, and asked if I wanted to share something sweet with him. We built a triple-decker blueberry pie sandwich and layered each slice with homemade marshmallow crème and crushed-up Heath bars. We stayed outside for what seemed like hours, planning our next great adventure and wishing on shooting stars.
At least this part of our friendship has stayed the same.
“So Jack said you’re moving home,” Wes says around a mouthful of pie. “Is this because of his operation?”
I nod. “He expects me to run the diner while he recovers, which means forever. But there’s no way I’m doing that.”
Squinting up at the sky, I think of Drew and our Sunday strolls around Chicago. How we like to find cozy spots at Millennium Park and toss day-old bread for the birds roosting on Cloud Gate. The way we hold hands as we walk along the lakefront and watch the fireworks explode over Navy Pier. When we venture to Chinatown for a picnic in the Chinese gardens.
“At least think about it,” he says. “The diner could use some of your cooking.”
“I can’t move back here, Wes,” I say, keeping my focus on Drew, our life together, and the things I adore about him. His boyish good looks. How he opens car doors for me and always lets me pick dessert—even pistachio ice cream, which he hates. The way his body molds against mine when we curl up in bed at night. Falling for him had been easy, comfortable, like lounging in a hammock on a summer day with a cold glass of lemonade. “I can’t.”
“Then don’t.”
I look at him, surprised he’d concede so easily.
“I think you belong here, Jelly Bean. But if you want to go back to Chicago, go back to Chicago.”
I sigh, mashing bits of crust between the fork tines. “What about my father? And the diner?”
“Listen,” he says, licking some crumbs off his finger. “Old Man Jack’s survived without your help these past five years. I imagine he can survive a few more.”
He’s right. Except we both know it’s not that easy, not when my father’s involved. My father’s the master puppeteer pulling my strings, and I have no choice but to obey.
We sit silently for a few moments, me pushing pecans around my plate until they resemble a four-leaf clover and him stuffing them into his mouth, polishing off the last of his pie.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m craving a cookie.” Wes pats his stomach. “Wanna split a chocolate chocolate chip?”
“No, thanks.”
Wes studies me as though I’m a math equation he doesn’t understand. “When have you ever refused a cookie?”
I shrug. Chocolate chocolate chip used to be my favorite, but now they taste too sweet, too decadent. Or maybe, like the diner, I’ve simply outgrown them.
“Okaaay,” Wes says when I don’t respond. “More for me, I guess.”
I laugh and pinch his side. “Maybe you should cut back before Annabelle complains about a muffin top.”
Wes flinches, and his Adam’s apple bobs. He picks at a small hole in the hem of his sleeve, his eyes glued to a smudge on the sidewalk. When he finally meets my gaze, I’m stunned by the grief written on his face. He takes a deep breath, as though bracing himself for something horrible.
“Annabelle isn’t . . . we’re not . . . didn’t she . . .” he says, fumbling over his words. “We ended things this past spring.”
The air leaves my lungs in a long whoosh, rendering me speechless. Wes and Annabelle are a modern-day fairy tale—childhood sweethearts hopelessly devoted to one another. Their edges fit.
Or so I thought.
Wes may be my oldest friend, but Annabelle has been my best friend since she sat next to me in Mrs. Hubbard’s fourth-grade social studies class with her Lisa Frank unicorn folders, all rosy cheeks and glasses and lace-trim ankle socks. We talk on the phone every week, but not once during our conversations did she ever say, “Hey, Lillie, remember Wes? That guy I’ve been slaphappy in love with since he held my hand on the Texas Star Ferris wheel in seventh grade? Well, we broke up six months ago. Kisses!”
Why didn’t she say anything?
“I’m sorry, Wes,” I say, biting my lip. “She never told me.”
He kicks a stray napkin with the tip of his shoe. “It’s all right. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and I really don’t want to, either.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but then he closes it.
“I’ve got a good one for you,” I say, remembering the joke I heard from a little boy at the airport.
“Yeah?” I see his shoulders relax, the tension flowing out like salt from a shaker.
“A friend got some vinegar in his ear. Now—”
Wes clamps a hand over my mouth. “Now he suffers from pickled hearing.”
My jaw drops open. That weasel stole my punch line. “How did you . . . ?”
“Please, Jelly Bean. That was third-grade level,” he says with a smug smile.
“Fine.” I cross my arms. “Bet you can’t guess this one. Why did the sesame seed refuse to leave the casino?”
He taps his chin. “I give up.”
“Because he was on a roll.”
Wes laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn. I missed you. Those jokes never get old. Wait till Nick hears them.” His grin falters, as though realizing whose name he said. Nick, the one person we don’t talk about and the only one I wish I could forget.
A fist squeezes around my heart. I’ve been so careful, tiptoeing around Nick’s memories so as not to trigger them like land mines. But now they’re surging up, pulling me under—him, bleary-eyed and exhausted, dragging into our living room after another brutal shift at the hospital. Me, desperate and pleading for him to listen, tears tumbling down my cheeks. The two of us staring numbly at each other across a chasm so wide it could never be bridged. Nick’s angry words and my whispered good-bye as I walked out the front door, leaving him behind.
The images seem like snippets from someone else’s life.
Proof this isn’t home anymore.
Not for me, anyway.
THREE
WES AGREES TO distract my father so I can sneak away. I have a career to save and precious time has already been wasted. As much as my father would disagree, my life doesn’t stop for his whims or demands.
I set up a makeshift office in the Prickly Pear, a café-slash-used-bookstore-slash-live-music-joint and an old favorite haunt. After ordering a large, extra foam, skim, vanilla chai latte, I claim the corner table and boot up my laptop.
My inbox is flooded with emails, most of which are from Ben, another consultant on the product launch. He’d never miss an opportunity to gloat, especially after he was put in charge today. In my absence, he pitched the distribution concepts to the Kingsbury Enterprises executive board. I can see him in his three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses presenting my ideas, taking credit for my hard work, gobbling up the attention like Garfield with his lasagna. I shouldn’t be shocked—he’s been after partner since starting at White, Ogden, and Morris a year ago. With my sudden departure, he’ll do anything to secure the promotion I’ve rightfully earned. I’m the one who arrives early and stays late, the one who works most Saturdays, who accepts the tedious, mundane assignments no one wants while seeking out new opportunities to develop my skill set. That position will be mine.
As suspected, several emails are from Ben gushing over himself, bragging to the team about what a stellar job he di
d at the meeting. How the executive board oohed and ahhed over his extensive research and creative solutions—my extensive research, my creative solutions. But it’s his last email, written in his normal condescending tone, that makes me want to tie him down and force him to lick mold off cheese. I’m the senior consultant on the account, and yet he’s taken it upon himself to dictate duties to the team. Next to my name he’s indicated I’m responsible for an updated report on market demographics, the newest financial projections for the first-quarter sales, and a detailed roll-out schedule. He’s also added this gem:
Lillie, while you have chosen to go on an impromptu vacation, these items must take priority, and I believe a week is an appropriate time frame for you to accomplish them.
The nerve of this guy. I chose an impromptu vacation? If only that was the case. Maybe he’ll finally die from a paper cut or choke on a pen cap. Ordinarily I’d tell Ben where to shove his undermining attitude, but he’s copied Thomas Brandon, our boss and the head of the committee that decides who makes partner. I don’t want to further jeopardize my chances of a promotion, so I need to be a team player.
I take a sip of chai, allowing the earthy clove and cinnamon flavors to calm me, and settle in for a long evening.
Hours later, my back aches from hunching over the computer and my stomach is grumbling from skipping dinner, but I’ve finished Ben’s tasks. As I send off the documents, I can’t help but feel vindicated and a tad smug. Ben underestimated how much I like a challenge.
As I am packing up my things, a buzzing noise comes from my purse. Digging out my phone, I glance at the caller ID—Thomas Brandon. I sit up straighter, pull my shoulders back, and answer.
“I assume your emergency’s been handled?” his stern voice barks into my ear, skipping all pleasantries.