Page 4 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“Don’t know why you’re whispering,” he grumbles. “She could use being knocked down a peg or two.”

He purses his lips, which would look intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that he has, once again, no teeth in his mouth. I glance toward Beverly, but she’s tapping away on her phone, blissfully unaware of the conversation taking place.

“Just because her daughter ‘made it out’”—he throws up crooked air quotes—“doesn’t mean she farts Chanel No. 5.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. I do my best to make it sound convincing even as something ugly shifts in my belly. Something hot and petty. It’s the part of me I hate, the part that keeps score.

Peyton McNaire leaving Boudica Springs isn’t ancient history. It’s a bruise I keep pressing just to make sure it still hurts. And it does. I should be glad she’s gone. She was the school bully, so getting rid of her toxic energy should bring me peace.

Peyton had never shoved anyone into lockers or pulled their hair—that might have been easier to survive. Instead, she looked through people, like they weren’t worth the effort of seeing. Especially me. I spent most of high school trying to disappear before she could make me feel invisible.

Maybe that’s why I started writing headlines. At first, they were just stupid little observations I scribbled in my notebook during class.

CAFETERIA TATER TOT SUPPLY DECIMATED. LOCAL TEEN DENIES INVOLVEMENT.

MATH TEACHER DECLARES WAR ON FUN. STUDENTS DEVASTATED.

Anything that made me laugh. Anything that made me feel like the people around me mattered.

Before long, I was carrying a notebook everywhere, filling pages with observations, snippets of conversations, and little details nobody else seemed to notice. Like how Mr. Davenport always gave the last bite of his pie to whatever dog happened to be hanging around. Or the way Shelly chewed the inside of her cheek when she was worried. Or how Grandma remembered everyone’s birthday without ever writing it down.

Everyone had a story.

Slowly, journalism stopped being an idea and became a dream. Not because I wanted fame, but because I liked seeing people. And maybe, if I was being completely honest, I liked the idea of being seen too. I didn’t want to be the center of attention, but I was tired of feeling like I existed in the background of everyone else’s lives. Being invisible was safe, but it was a lonely existence. If someone really saw me—saw who I was beneath the awkwardness and the mistakes—maybe I’d finally feel like I mattered.

Which is also why I’m envious Peyton got out. Because it makes karma seem all wrong. Like it doesn’t touch those who deserve it the most and is rather random.

I clear my throat and change the subject. “Lost your teeth again, I see?”

He shakes his head. “I swear someone slips in at night and hides them. I’m too organized for this nonsense.”

He defends himself like a man who believes his own lies.

“You want me to start labeling things?” I ask with a smile.

“Careful,” he says. “I know where you work.”

“Good, then you know I control the refills.”

His veiny hands clutch his heart in mock pain. “Argh, hitting a man where it hurts.”

“Inherited my grandma’s spirit.”

We both glance over to where she’s talking to one of our regulars. Just seeing her there, weathered face reinforcing her wisdom, braid draped over one shoulder, silver cuffs catching the light, reminds me exactly where that spirit comes from.

Shelly makes her way over, nudging her glasses up her nose. “You misplace the teeth again, Mr. Davenport?”

“You didn’t leave them in your walker, did you? I saw you tuck them in there yesterday after your pie,” I say, suddenly remembering.

He scratches his head. “Could be.”

“I’d give it a look if I were you,” Shelly chimes in. “Otherwise it’s scrambled eggs for you, and today’s special is steak pie.” She points at the framed blackboard listing our daily specials.

I’ve never seen him move that fast. Mr. Davenport is off the leather stool and rummaging through the basket attached to the underside of his walker before either of us can offer to help.

“Excuse me, miss?”

I turn to see a burly trucker with a red beard and a faded blue cap waving from just inside the door.