In other places, I’ve got close friends and family. But in Serenity, I’ve only got co-workers and customers. And that’s okay with me. Everyone in Flamingo’s knows each other, and they think they know me. But they don’t. Not really. They know what they’ve read about me and what I tell them in clips of conversation in between waiting on customers.
Cal being the exception. He wasn’t here when everything went down, so I don’t feel like I have to earn his forgiveness. We can be friends.
But even there, I’m so good at keeping to myself that I’ve never met Cal’s kid in the six months since he moved back toSerenity Cove. He usually brings her in after school pick-up, but my shift’s over by then.
“Busier than usual in here this morning,” Barry says pointedly, but quietly enough that the stranger next to him doesn’t look up from mopping his toast in the bright yellow egg yolk smeared across his plate.
I follow Barry’s eyes around the diner and, for the first time, realize I’ve been focusing on the wrong thing. Why Cal’s missing this morning isn’t important. The number of strangers who’ve come in for breakfast is.
We’re all bracing ourselves for an uptick in tourists. No one’s said it out right, but there’s been a change in the vibe of Flamingo’s this week. An anticipation. Like in those zombie apocalypse shows where a group of people think they’re safe until one zombie gets in. Then they know the rest are coming, they just dunno when.
There’s always been a trickle of them—tourists, not zombies. Mostly surfers, like me, scouting a good wave not packed with groms. But over the past year, that trickle has increased to a steady stream, ever since an influencer dubbed Serenity Cove the “hottest wedding party destination."
This week, though, is the official reopening of the updated Serenity Cove Inn, rebranded asSanctuaryto match its new, bougie vibes. Flamingo’s is anything but bougie, which, ironically seems to be what’s attracting all the zombies.They’re like seagulls to hot chips. They spot Flamingo’s and swoop in loud, entitled, and absolutely convinced we want them here.
The bugger is, no matter how much Flamingo’s regulars pretend I’m not to blame for Serenity Cove being discovered, we all know I am. What they haven't discovered yet is Sanctuary is my fault, too.
“Order up, Fran.” With her metal spatula, Flo points to the line of plated food in front of her.
Pearl can’t manage all those orders. I can’t hide behind the counter all morning, so I pat my platinum beehive to make sure no auburn curls peek from under it.
“Got it.” I grab a tray and fill it, then scoop up two more plates, balancing one in the crook of my arm. Instead of my usualcheers,I shoot Flo athanksin my best American accent.
Time to play Fran McVey. If I pretend it’s a part, I forget how high the stakes are.
Arms full, I carry the plates and a tray stand toward table eight. My eyes shoot to the door as I pass it. There’s a line of people waiting for a seat, but still no Cal.
Even in a crowd, he’s hard to miss. Not just because of his height. There’s something about him that stands out. A kind of quiet energy that draws people to him.
Or maybe just me. I’m definitely drawn to him.
But only as a friend,obviously. His looks are a nice side-order to his friendship. Like sweet potato fries with a turkey sandwich. Only better.
I pop the stand and set my tray on it, then keep my gaze down as I sort whose order is whose. Quick glances confirm I don’t recognize anyone at the table. Even better, none of them seem to recognize me. It’s easy to hide in plain sight when you play the part of someone people don’t often pay attention to.
Maybe that’s why, on my way back to the kitchen, I let my guard down enough to glance at the LA Ladies in their booth. I’m nearly past when one of them calls, “Excuse me!”
Reluctantly, I stop. “Yes?”
“I don’t see it on the menu, but could we order some lattes with almond milk?” the lady’s eyes shoot up to the pretend veil on her head. Like I said, entitled seagull.
Which makes me more inclined to deny her request, but as I open my mouth to tell her Flo’s black-coffee only policy, Ponytailinterrupts.
“You look familiar.”
My eyes dart to her before I can stop them. She leans forward, studying me too closely.
I’ve lived with the dread of being recognized for so long that it’s become a steady, dull ache. Always there, but so familiar it blends into the background. Her stare, though, brings it back sharp and clear.
I swallow and shake my head. “I get that sometimes. I’ll see what I can do about those lattes.”
I glue my eyes to the checkered floor and try not to run back to the counter. Back to the Oatmeal Mafia and Flo.
On my way, the front door flies open with a gust of wind and a proper Tassie devil whirls in wearing a bright orange sundress, red ladybug rainboots, a teddy bear on her back, and lopsided pigtails on either side of her head. She zips past me, dragging some kind of leash thing behind her, headed for the counter, shrieking, “Pancakes peas!”
Pearl, an order in her arms, is directly in the little feral thing’s path.
Without hesitating, I grab the leash first, then the kid with a quick scoop around her waist. It’s all so fast, her legs are still in motion when I pick her up. Then reality hits, and her running legs turn to angry kicking.
