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Three Weeks Later
“Doll, I ordered my eggs scrambled, not poached.”
“I’m sorry?” My grip on reality flashes like a TV station’s picture flickering in and out with the static. Blinking once, I return to the now.
The customer, a middle-aged man with kind blue eyes, points at his plate, where indeed sits two poached eggs, three strips of bacon, and a mountain of hash browns. It’s apparent he feels guilty for pointing out my error, but I’ve grown accustomed to my oversight because it’s happened countless times this week.
“I’m so sorry, Will. Here, let me fix that for you.” I lunge for the plate, my cheeks blistering, but he gently wraps his fingers around my wrist.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll eat them.” I smile, thankful he doesn’t cause a scene.
“Here. Let me top off your coffee.” Will, who I met on my first day of work, removes his hand and offers me his white porcelain cup. I pour in the dark liquid, sighing when my shaky hand overfills the cup, making a mess on his saucer.
“Not having a good day?” he asks, reaching for a wad of napkins to soak up my mess.
“You could say that,” I reply, reaching into my apron pocket and placing a handful of creamers onto the tabletop. “Breakfast is on me.”
On autopilot, I walk through my place of employment, the very cool 50s-themed diner, Nat’s Place. This place serves good, wholesome food at reasonable prices. It’s also open twenty-four hours. So it goes without saying that it’s a hit with locals and tourists alike.
I pass through the retro layout, topping off coffees while remembering to smile. But that’s a big ask, considering these past few weeks have been utter hell. I promised myself I wouldn’t think of the night that kick-started my demise, but I’ve accepted the fact that I’m a complete masochist because before my life turned to shit, I was happy. For a single moment, I felt alive.
A simple kiss changed my world forever, but there was nothing simple about that kiss, nor the confession that followed. I swallow past the lump in my throat that forms when merely thinking his name. Cayden and I were in love. My heart warms. But a bitter cold soon replaces that warmth.
“I broke your heart…and for the next ten years…you broke mine.”
His admission still chills me to the bone. What did I do? What did we do?
The blackouts have been far more frequent, and the feeling of being watched is so overwhelming that I’ve begun taking the meds prescribed to me by my doctor. I vowed to never take them, but the line between fiction and reality is beginning to blur.
When I came to after passing out, I woke up alone in my bedroom. No doubt Cayden carried me home, but he didn’t stick around. I gave him the space he clearly needed because I needed it too, but when dawn broke, I knew that space was endless.
Cayden lay low, as did I. I had to clear my head. His confession changed everything. It changed how I viewed myself. And him. After everything I’ve uncovered, one thing is clear—I wasn’t a good person. How could I be? I made the man I loved promise to forget me because I had forgotten him. But evidently, I hadn’t.
After two torturous days, I finally gathered the courage to knock on his front door. He never answered. I thought he needed more time, but as two days turned into three, four, five, it was apparent time wasn’t what he needed. He needed me to leave him alone. Whatever love we shared was no more.
I still had Cayden’s truck, so I left it in his driveway since he’d made it clear he didn’t want to see me. The next day, it was parked in my front yard. He still cared, which just made things worse. I wanted to storm over to this house and demand he speaks to me, but I didn’t. A small part of me was scared of what I would say. What I would ask. Everything is just so messed up.
I’ve replayed every conversation we’ve had, and each time, I’m left more confused, angry, and wounded than the time before. I am furious that Cayden shut me out after everything he disclosed, but that rage soon disappears when I wonder what I did to him for him to look at me with such sorrow and regret in his eyes.
It appears he has stayed true to his word because, since that night, he’s been MIA. Lacey too. I can’t help but feel betrayed because she knew the truth this entire time. I made Cayden promise, but what about her?
Once again, I’m drowning in questions with no end in sight.
Cayden sent workmen over to the house to finish the job, which just made this entire situation all the more unbearable. His mixed signals confused me further. I wanted him, not them, and demanded they leave and never come back. Of course, they didn’t listen.
Even in my times of absolute solitude, I’ve never felt more alone than I did in that house. Every noise was amplified in the silence. But even more so, he was amplified everywhere I looked. Late at night, while staring up at the single star, I came to realize why this house slowly became a home. It was because of Cayden. He gave me a taste of what I wanted…of what I had. But then ripped it out from under me—again.
Determined not to surrender, I educated myself as best as I could by making YouTube my best friend. I watched video after video on DIY home renovations. I also utilized the firsthand knowledge I learned from Cayden. However, after the stunt Stella pulled, there was no way I was going to depend on her for a cent. I may have my own bank account, but for some reason, using that money feels so wrong.
As I walked home from the hardware store one day, supplies in hand, I noticed a HELP WANTED sign in the diner window. As much as I loved working for Cayden, there was no way I could go back. So I applied and immediately got the job.
It’s waiting tables, which I don’t mind doing, and my boss, Nate, is terrific. This diner has been in his family for generations, and he’s kept it the way his great-grandfather Nathanael designed it. Nate doesn’t ask questions or say anything when I break yet another plate or cup when it falls from my forever shaky fingers. He rarely speaks, which suits me just fine.
I am happy to descend into anonymity.
Julia, a bubbly server from Texas, offers me a stick of gum as I round the counter and head for a coffee refill. I know she’s just trying to be friendly, but I can’t do friendly. The last friend I made vanished without a trace.
However, not wanting to be rude, I accept the peppermint strip and place it into the pocket of my mint green uniform. The dress is the traditional retro diner outfit with a white collar and white cuffed short sleeves. Thankfully, Nate drew the line at the white headband.
“Want to take a break?” Julia asks, standing beside me.
“No, I’m okay. I already took mine.”
“That was yesterday,” she kindly says. The glass coffeepot rattles in my hand.
She’s probably right. Every day shapes into one giant repetitive loop, and the fact that I don’t need more than three hours of sleep to survive has me working double shifts. I need the money and the distraction. It’s a win-win.
Will appears, ready to pay his bill, but I wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered.” Reaching into my apron pocket, I attempt to sort through the wads of ones, prepared to pay for his breakfast out of my tips. But he reaches across the counter, gently wrapping his fingers around my wrist to stop me.
“No, you won’t. Ring up the bill. I won’t have you paying for my breakfast.” The firmness of his tone affirms this isn’t up for discussion. So I don’t bother arguing.
He pulls his hand back while I nervously calculate the total. “That’ll be ten fifty-four.”
Will hunts for his wallet from his back pocket and gives me a twenty. “Keep the change, doll.”
I hesitate to accept because it’s too much, but Will seems like the type of man who doesn’t take no for an answer. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”
“I will. See you tomorrow?” he asks, pocketing his wallet before reaching for a toothpick from a container on the counter.
