Page 26 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“That’s not commitment,” I say. “That’s concerning.”

He shrugs. “Results speak for themselves.”

I glance around. He’s not wrong. The place looks amazing, all warm and inviting. Worth stopping for, worth coming back to. Would it be so bad to stay and run this place? No sooner has the thought flitted through my mind than the familiar feeling sinks in my stomach. God, why can’t I just make up my damn mind already? My eyes flick to the door before I can stop them.

God, I need to get a grip.

“Dannica.” Shelly’s voice cuts through my spiral like a well-aimed axe. I turn. She’s watching me intently.

“What?” I ask, a little too quickly.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just enough to say she’s thinking. Miraculously, she lets it go. “Table six wants extra gravy.”

Relief floods me so fast, it’s embarrassing. “On it.”

I grab the gravy boat and move before she can change her mind and circle back. Because she will; they all will eventually. They always do.

By the end of the shift, my patience is hanging by a thread, and the bell over the door has rung enough times to permanently rewire my brain. I don’t even notice I’m doing it anymore: the glance, the hope, the immediate disappointment. It’s become as automatic as breathing or blinking. Or self-sabotage.

“Okay, that’s it,” Quadri says, clapping her hands once. “We survived another day. Barely.”

“Speak for yourself,” Shelly says. “I thrived.”

“You dropped an entire tray of milkshakes.”

“I maintain that it was a tactical decision.”

“That was gravity.”

“Agree to disagree.”

I lean against the counter, letting their conversation wash over me, familiar and grounding in a way nothing else is. This place and these people… it’s not a bad life. I just wish I could look to the future and see which version of myself is happier. I exhale slowly, pushing off the counter and grabbing a cloth.

“Let’s close up before someone decides they need a midnight burger.”

“Don’t manifest that,” Mary mutters.

The bell jingles.

Too late.

Every single one of us freezes. I hate that my heart actually skips. Just for a second. I especially dislike the hope. Ugh, this is stupid.

And then⁠—

Beverly.

Of course it’s Beverly.

“Fucking Beverly. Fucking, fucking, fucking Beverly.”

I mutter it like a chant, turning the hot water faucet as far as it will go and stepping under the spray. The scalding water pounds against my shoulders as I grab my bottle of shampoo and pray the heat will soothe my tired muscles and rinse away the rage.

The diner closed hours ago. Everyone else is already home, but I just got in and I am bone weary.

I’m also convinced Beverly clogged that toilet on purpose just to get back at me. The woman knows she’s lactose intolerant, yet she still ordered the damn chicken alfredo. She clogged the toilet so badly it turned into a full-on duel to the death between me and the plunger.

I’ve been plotting revenge ever since I managed to unclog it, but nothing has felt satisfying enough.