Page 120 of Matchmaking On The Menu

That takes a moment to pierce my brain. I stare at her, processing her words.

“Are you—” I stop, my mind racing to catch up. “Are you offering me a job?”

She adjusts her glasses slightly, her demeanor unfazed. “I’m offering you the opportunity to come in, review the contracts, and determine if the position suits you. If it does, then yes.”

My heart does something weird. A sharp, sudden lurch that feels a lot like hope and panic crashing into each other at full speed.

LOCAL WOMAN HANDED DREAM OPPORTUNITY. IMMEDIATELY MALFUNCTIONS.

“I—” I let out a breath, pushing a hand through my hair. “I don’t know.”

Her brows lift slightly. “You don’t know.”

“I mean—” I gesture vaguely around me. “This place. The diner. I already have a lot on my plate, and running a whole newspaper feels like… a lot more plate.”

Mrs. Newberry studies me for a long moment, like she’s trying to figure out whether I’m serious or just catastrophically underconfident. Probably both.

“I see,” she says finally.

For some reason, that tiny bit of disappointment in her voice hurts more than it should. Because the truth is, I already know what the answer has to be.

The diner needs someone willing to fully step in. Grandma deserves that. She deserves someone who isn’t half in and half out, chasing some impossible dream that may or may not survive longer than a week. At least here I already know I belong.

My stomach twists painfully.

Funny how quickly something becomes a dream once there’s a chance you might lose it.

Writing that piece had felt… different. Bigger somehow. Like a door opening somewhere inside me I’d spent years pretending wasn’t there. For the first time in a long time, I let myself imagine it. Me writing. Me creating something that mattered outside the walls of this diner.

And maybe that was the problem. Because now I know what it feels like to want it. Wanting something means you can fail at it. It means discovering maybe you’re not as good as you hoped.

I glance around the diner. The booths. The coffee stains nobody else notices. The familiar sizzle of the fryer. Grandma moving through the kitchen like she’s part of the building itself. This place raised me, it fed me and held me together when I needed it most.

And Grandma needs an answer. Not eventually. Now.

A dull ache settles low in my chest as the realization fully lands. I’m going to say no. Not out loud yet. But internally, the decision settles into place. I’ll take over the diner, I’ll stop chasing the writing thing before it gets big enough to break my heart properly. Because dreams are nice, but this place is real.

There’s a pause, and for a moment, I think she might take it all back. But then⁠—

A loud clatter explodes from the kitchen. Mrs. Newberry and I both turn toward the pass window at the same time. Mary is standing there, frozen, a pot at her feet. And behind the pass, crouched, are Quadri and Shelly.

All very obviously attempting to look like they have not been actively eavesdropping. There’s a long beat, then Shelly pops up, brushing off her apron like she’s just been minding her own business the entire time.

“Okay, in our defense,” she says, “you were talking about something extremely important.”

I stare at them, my jaw dropping in disbelief. “You were all just… under there?”

“Technically, yes,” Quadri says calmly, standing next to Shelly, completely unbothered. “But emotionally, we were right here with you.”

Mary winces slightly. “Sorry about the pot.”

I drag a hand down my face, feeling the weight of the moment. “You guys⁠—”

“No,” Shelly cuts in, stepping closer, her expression softening. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Automatically decide you have to carry everything by yourself.”