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Oh Cal…It’s about damn time, sweetheart.
She started to pull the order pad from her apron pocket, then changed her mind and just moved, because big feelings always made Mary Sue feed people. “You both look like you need to eat. I don’t want to hear about menus — I know what you need.”
She turned toward the kitchen, then paused and looked back.
“Sage, honey.” Her voice caught — just the smallest hitch, a single crack in decades of mortar made from sheer will and love. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Four simple words. Delivered with the full weight of everything she meant.
Sage’s eyes went bright. She blinked hard. Swallowed.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Then, even softer, like the truth cost her something precious, she said, “Nobody’s said that to me in… a really long time.”
The words dropped into the booth like a stone into still water, rippling outward.
Mary Sue looked at her — this eighteen-year-old girl with scars both seen and unseen, sitting in a town she’d never heard of a day ago — and felt her throat tighten all over again.
Her jaw worked once.
“Well,” she said, voice rough around the edges. “Get used to it, baby girl.”
She turned her gaze to Cal. The corner of her mouth compressed, fighting a smile, fighting something much bigger than a smile.
“I like her.”
SAGE
Mary Sue disappeared back into the kitchen, apron strings waving behind her.
Sage stared at the swinging door like it might swing back open and steal the words away.
She’s glad I’m here.
The sentence kept echoing, soft and dangerous, right in the center of her chest. Nobody said things like that. Not to her. Not without wanting something. Not without a price. Mary Sue’s voice had been so steady, so real, and then she’d looked at Cal and said, “I like her” like it was the simplest, most obvious truth in the world.
Sage’s throat burned. She twisted her fingers tighter in the hem of her flannel, grounding herself in the soft fabric so she wouldn’t cry right here in the middle of the diner like some pathetic little kid. Her eyes stung anyway. She blinked hard — once, twice — forcing it all back down.
Don’t. It’s not a big deal. Just… breathe.
She looked across the booth at Cal. He was watching her with those quiet eyes that saw way too much.
“Your mom is scary,” she said, voice rougher than she wanted.
“She’s not exactly—”
“Your mom,” Sage repeated, firmer this time, trying to sound normal, “is scary.”
His mouth gave that tiny twitch again and he nodded, giving her space without making it a thing.
She likes me. His mom actually likes me.
The thought made something huge and fragile flutter hard behind her ribs. She picked up the lollipop, turned it slowly between her fingers, then slid it back between her lips with none of the teasing performance from earlier. Just something to do with her mouth so it wouldn’t tremble. Cherry sweetness burst across her tongue, familiar and grounding.
Outside the window, snow kept falling in lazy, silent drifts. Johnny Cash rumbled low on the jukebox. The diner hummed around them — clatter of plates, easy laughter, the sound of people being alive together in a safe, warm place.
And Sage sat there pretending her heart wasn’t shaking apart in the best way it ever had.
Maybe… maybe this is real.
