And then they kiss, and it’ll be beautiful, and they’ll live happily ever after—as soon as they stop kissing, but they’renotgoing to stop kissing for at least…hm…seven pages? No. Eight. December’s favorite number is eight, so I’ll make it eight.
“Enjoy your meal.” I smile, delivering two plates of steak to a few regulars. I barely register their replies as I float off to my next table after making a pitstop at the kitchen drink station. “More sweet tea, Mr. Calloway?” Pitcher in hand, I get his glass and refill before drifting to collect a tip and clear a different table.
Here at Bear’s, the restaurant my grandparents own in sweet mountain-side Amarella, Georgia, I occasionally pick up shifts for one singular purpose…
Gossip.
Loads, andloads, of gossip.
When you’re a waitress in a vacation town constantly flooded with tourists, you hearthings. You meetcharacters. You happen upon the most ludicrous ideas and see the strangest people. So, whenever I’m a little stuck on a story, I scoop up some of what I like to callinspiration.
It’s everywhere. In everything. Becausestoriesare everywhere, in everything.
Humans live on them.
They’re used blatantly in media, of course. TV shows. Movies. Video games. Books. But they’re also used less blatantly in things like marketing. Advertisements. Art.
There’s a story behind the way Bear’s is decorated with old barrels and antique furniture and weathered, resined wood tables. There’s a story behind the taxidermied bears in the roped-off section at the front lobby, with its trickling stream and small koi pond.
There’s a story in every single item that a person touches or brings home.
There’s a story behind every line people say and every trait people possess.
You can’t avoid it.
You can only choose to breathe it in, become aware, and fall in love with all the many, many beautifully unique stories there are.
So, that’s what I do.
Day-in, and day-out, I choose tobreathe.
Beaming as the conclusion to my current WIP clears itself up in my brain, I return to the kitchen to deposit my pitcher and plates.
Before I can whirl back around and head out to find inspiration for the story that will come after my current one’s completion, Granee hisses at me, “August.”
My back straightens, and I stop short, finding her by the bread warmer. “Yes, Granee?”
Frantic, eyes glinting withsecretstories, she waves me over to her.
Elated, I trot past the orders ready to head out and tuck in close.
She whispers, “Lynn is here.”
Lynn is often here. She’s one of my grandmother’s close friends. They have book club together. On very rare occasions,I stop in at their book club for tea and gossip—AKA: a different flavor of inspiration. Among the most recent gossip, their book club’s youngest member, Mirabelle, married a billionaire who moved into the fanciest beach house Amarella has to offer just to be near her. I attended the wedding earlier this month and received further details about the romance from Mirabelle’s best friend, Fawn. All in all, it created excellent fodder for the stories that spin themselves together in my brain.
Comparatively, Lynn being here for dinner is hardly fodder for anything at all.
Pushing my large black-rimmed glasses up my freckled nose, I beseech my grandmother. “Pray tell, madam, what relevance hath the presence of thine dear friend brought today?”
“She’s with aguy.”
Now that,thatis fodder.
Gasping, I plant my fingers at my lips. “What ascandal!” Lynn has always said that she would never, ever, remarry. This is astory, indeed. I prod and pry, “Is it Mr. Hall? He’s had a crush on her for months, and we both know he doesn’t have many months left.”
Granee bops me in the back of the head, sending my glasses askew.
I fix them.
