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I adjust my blonde hair, the yellow ribbons I weaved through my French braid still there. I have got nothing but the clothes on my back, two hundred dollars in my bank account, and the old box of letters I keep in my trunk. I never moved it out of Ol’ Rusty because a part of me didn’t want Braydon to see it. At the time, I’d rationalized that it was because I had gotten over what happened.
I get out of the car and smooth the yellow silk dress that looks entirely ridiculous now that it’s daylight. I take a deep breath and enter the Heartstopper Diner.
It’s like being slapped with nostalgia. The early afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting the retro interior, with its cushy red barstools, linoleum flooring, and chrome-sided counter. The booths are half full. Familiar folks everywhere.
Marci Walsh looks up from behind the counter and her eyes go as round as donuts. Marci and I have kept in contact since I left, texting and FaceTiming whenever we get the chance. She was one of my friends in high school and the only girl who’s stuck by me through thick and thin.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” That comes from Rod Coleman, who must be at least sixty years old now. He rises out of his seat across from his wife. “Is that—?”
“Sit down, Rod, before you break another hip craning your neck at pretty women…” His wife, Tilly, trails off. She rises too. “It can’t be.”
“June!” Marci cries. She circles the counter, her emerald-green eyes glistening, her long red hair, twisted into a messy bun on top of her head, bounces as she runs over. Marci squeezes me tight then holds me out at arm’s length. “Well, you could’ve told me you were coming.”
“Marci.” I hug her back, relishing the physical contact. It feels like years have passed since I’ve experienced real affection.
“June Jackson,” Rod says, grinning at me then smoothing a hand over his graying hair. “We didn’t think we’d be seeing you again.”
“Certainly didn’t.” Tilly, the head librarian at Heatstroke’s public library, comes over and takes her turn giving me a hug. “Welcome home, honey pie. What brings you back? I heard you were living the highlife out in Dallas. Your mother’s been talking the ear off anybody who stops long enough to listen. Telling everybody how you’re a rich girl now.”
“A rich girl who never visits. But guess that’s all changed now, hasn’t it?” Rod is eager for his hug, and I laugh and give him one. It’s gut-wrenching to be home. I have amazing memories here mixed with terrible ones. I have to remind myself that I’m here for the summer, and that’s it.
“I was about to get engaged.”
That silences them. The quaint bell over the door tinkles as another customer enters. This time, it’s Desiree from the antique store. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she says. “Is that—?”
Rod waves for her to shush up. “We’re past that part already.”
“We’ve moved on to the reason why,” Tilly puts in.
“She was engaged,” Rod says.
“About to be,” Tilly corrects him.
The gathering crowd of well-meaning folks have picked up that something’s gone wrong and Marci steps in. “This is a discussion we should have in private,” she says.
“Marci Walsh,” Tilly says, fisting her hips. “You’re not seriously going to deprive us of the first good gossip we’ve had in years, are you?”
“Everybody who doesn’t have their butt in a chair in the next five minutes isn’t getting a refill on coffee,” Marci says.
That gets them back to their booths real quick. Heatstrokers love nothing more than a good cup of coffee, and Marci happens to make the best—she’s been working the counter since high school when her daddy owned the diner. Before she took over.
Marci guides me to a stool at the counter and fixes me a cup of said coffee. She pushes it along the countertop, her gaze laser-focused on me.
“You didn’t text,” she says softly. “What happened, June?”
I can feel the ears perking up around the diner.
I take a sip of coffee and am instantly transported to heaven. Sweet, sweet relief. That rest stop coffee had no kick.
“It’s a long story,” I say, and then I tell her. Everything. At full volume. Partly because I know this will be all over Heatstroke before the hour is out anyway, and partly because it feels good to speak it out loud.
Marci’s eyebrows lift on her freckled forehead the longer I talk.
When I’m done, she blinks. “Well, shit,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“I mean,” I gesture toward myself, “apart from the fact that I have no job, no future, and I’m going to have to sleep in my old room at my mom’s place until I can get back on my feet? Sure.” I don’t have a choice to be not okay. I’m determined to view this as a fresh start.
And to avoid anything with a dick at all costs. Men are done. The past. Never happening again. It’s finally time to focus on what I want.
