I just smile and look back to the little girl. “Alright, Ava. What’s your favorite flavor?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Strawberry.”
I grin. “That’s my favorite too.”
She giggles like I just told her a secret, bouncing on her heels while I grab a cone.
I scoop the ice cream and hand it over carefully, the cone tipping slightly before her tiny fingers latch around it like it’s a winning lottery ticket. She grins, already licking, a smear of ice cream hitting her cheek in less than ten seconds.
Her mom steps up to the counter with a wallet already halfway open and the toddler now balanced on her hip like a sack of potatoes. There’s exhaustion in her eyes, but something softer, too—relief, maybe. A little peace in the middle of the chaos.
“We just needed to get out of the house,” she says, card in hand, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “I didn’t even care where we went, I just needed four walls that weren’t mine.”
I swipe her card and nod, smiling. “I remember those days.”
Her brow lifts, hopeful. “Tell me it gets easier.”
I let out a laugh. “Sure. If by easier, you mean they start eating everything in your fridge and developing very strong opinions about socks. Apparently there’scoolsocks now.”
She snorts, shaking her head as the toddler finally settles, sucking contentedly on the now very sticky lollipop. “That sounds…great.”
“It is,” I say, sliding her receipt across the counter. “It’s exhausting.It’s hilarious. It’s wild. But somehow, you miss every version of them the second it’s gone.”
She softens, cradling her toddler a little tighter as she slips her card back into her wallet. “I believe that,” she murmurs. “I already look at them and can’t believe they’re not babies anymore. It’s like I blinked and everything changed.”
I nod, something tugging behind my ribs. “Same with mine. He’s twelve now. I swear he was just learning how to hold a spoon yesterday.”
She smiles, eyes crinkling. “Thanks for talking. It’s nice to have a conversation with someone who doesn’t scream at me every five minutes.”
“Anytime,” I say, and I mean it. I watch as she guides her kids to a booth in the far corner, settling in with the ease of a mom who knows exactly how to keep one child busy with a cone and the other distracted with a napkin and a straw.
Then I smell her before I see her.
Dawn.
She slides up to the counter, the scent of stale smoke trailing behind her like a shadow. She’s smiling, that same familiar smile I’ve seen for years—just the right mix of charm and snark, like she’s about to gossip or confess to something mildly criminal, and you’ll love her for it anyway.
“Well, look at you,” she says, adjusting her apron as she leans in a little too close to the register. “Running this place like a well-oiled machine up here all by yourself. Makes me almost feel bad for taking a smoke break.”
I manage a tight smile, hoping it doesn’t tremble at the edges. “You’re allowed your break, Dawn.”
She smirks, tapping the counter with her nails. “Tell that to Opal. She’s been throwing tongs like ninja stars back there.”
I almost laugh. Almost. It’s so typically her—casual, a little offhanded, totally unbothered. She has no idea I know. That I’ve been walking around for days trying to reconcile the woman who used to sneak me marshmallows as a kid with someone capable of burning my life down for a paycheck.
I nod along, pretending I’m still just Lark, and she’s still just Dawn, butthe disbelief hasn’t worn off yet. I keep searching her face for something different—guilt, maybe, or hesitation—but all I get is smoke and that same worn-in comfortability.
Dawn leans her hip against the counter, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Where’s that boy of yours today?”
“Fishing,” I say, smoothing my hands over the front of my apron. “With Boone. They’ve been going a lot lately.”
Her laugh bubbles up immediately. “Boone Wilding. That boy’s always had a thing for fishin’. Remember when he caught that massive cutthroat? Had to have been at least twenty inches. Hauled it in like he was God’s gift to the creek and strutted in here soaking wet, holding that thing like a trophy.”
I do remember. All too well.
I was twelve, maybe. Boone had grass stains on both knees and dirt smudged across his face, a trout nearly the size of his forearm swinging from a string. He thought it was hilarious to chase me around, waving the thing in my face like I’d be impressed instead of horrified.
I wrinkle my nose at the memory. “He wouldn’t stop trying to slap me with it.”
