Page 42 of Love Felt Like This

I feel like I’m burning up.

I slide open the porch door. My toes sting against the chilly wood when I step onto our second-story balcony. A low fog conceals the tops of the firs standing sentry around our log house. It’s so quiet. Only whistling wind and creaking branches.

Normally I’m surrounded by the sound of shoes pounding up and down stairs in my apartment building, or of car horns honking, or sirens from the occasional emergency vehicle turning down the street outside my window. But in Elk Grove during winter break, Rob sleeps until noon, recovering from long nights practicing with his band, and my parents open their pancake house before the sun rises. Even Nana is gone, despite usually being in the living room by now.

Nana used to live in the refurbished garage apartment out back. I have distinct memories of her shuffling across the yard in her bathrobe, but after Grandpa died, she moved into the spare room across the hall from mine.

I head back inside and spot the scribbled note from Nana again. I check the time. And then Griffin’s text.

I only have one hour to clean.

Dishes are piled up in the kitchen sink. The floors have little paw prints near the sliding glass door. Dusty family pictures hang in the hall, and I guess they’re not too embarrassing, but then—

Right next to the hallway, there’s a family photo with all of us and Beau. Or it used to be Beau. Now his face is removed, and a cutout of Pudge is glued in its place. I look around. There are more pictures of Beau and me—theater camps and graduation—that have become fake memories with Pudge instead. My mom even added a little scrapbook bowtie.

Despite closing the sliding glass door, I feel colder.

Maybe we could join Nana at the diner. At eight o’clock on a Saturday and with the weather this cold, nobody will be there except my parents and Nana anyway. Maybe Uncle Greg.

We could get breakfast. Gradually get acquainted again.

No problem.

Honestly, it’s even better this way.

I shoot a quick text to Griffin, then head back to my room.

Beverly: Let me send you the address to our local diner instead. Pancake capital of the world!

Elk Grove, North Carolina, is a blink and you miss it type of town. We’re mostly known for bikers zooming through during the summer or tourist families stopping for a bathroom break on their way to a more exciting destination.

Our sort of downtown consists of three brick buildings—a bookstore, a thrift shop / antique store, and a post office—across from a fenced-in lookout. On clear days, the view is stunning. On foggy days, the view is still stunning.

Beyond the brick buildings, a single blinking yellow light indicates the edge of town, where, on a small patch of tiny plateaued incline, my parents’ squat yellow diner sits.

It should be empty.

Except it’s not.

Cars line the makeshift gravel parking spots along the side of the road, and my stomach clenches.

Oh no.

I rumble my rickety station wagon into one of two spaces remaining. I shut off the engine and peer through the windows of Momma’s Pancake House.

My heart sinks.

Because I see everyone. And I mean everyone.

Maria sits at the breakfast bar next to Tom, our local mechanic. Opposite him is Eddie, our postman, and Fran, my former English teacher. A booth near the window holds my retired pediatrician. In the one next to it is a familiar face, maybe from high school theater?

Please don’t tell me this is—

An A-frame whiteboard outside the front stoop reads January Town Hall! Free coffee, free opinions.

Oh God.

My phone buzzes.