Page 81 of The Irresistible Distraction

“Yes. I’ll be there.” I’ll worry the entire time about all the little things that might go wrong, but this is what Maggie wants. “I’ll come with Vera’s camera, a ton of film, and hopefully a lot of anti-nausea meds.”

“I’m not nauseous anymore.”

“For me, Maggie. I can’t do blood, remember?”

“Right, well, great.” And I wish she sounded more confident, but I’ve known Maggie for long enough that I can tell there’s the faintest hint of anxiety there, threaded within the confident exterior. It’s like the time she talked me into skinny-dipping at midnight but then didn’t actually want to go through with it.

“You’re sure you still want an at-home birth?”

“Of course.” Her voice is stronger now, and without seeing her, I can’t tell if she’s fronting or not. “This is potentially the beginning of my eventually Emmy-nominated YouTube channel on my journey through motherhood.”

“Can YouTube channels win Emmys?”

“Huh. Don’t know, doesn’t matter. I’ll probably have changed my mind by the time I see the pictures and decide I don’t want to show the world what I look like bloated and sweating.”

I laugh and am settling into my blankets, which smell, just a little, of Brody and of everything Brody and I did here a few hours ago.

“Tyler’s too far away to complain about being traumatized now. Tell me everything. And don’t you dare leave out a single dirty detail.”

23

MAYBE INSTALLED A SKATE RAMP

Jesse continues to text in a way that makes me feel borderline uncomfortable. Because pressing me to talk more in person didn’t work, he’s far more careful now, couching every text in Seba-adjacent topics. He wants to reopen the debate about skipping grades, now that he’ll be moving back and could provide more enrichment. He wants to hear more about who this Lorelai is and what the programming lessons entail and why wasn’t he given the chance to go on the camping trip?

Though it’s clear Jesse’s unhappy with the news that Brody is camping with Seba, he doesn’t bother objecting directly. Instead, he repeats his admonishments about Seba and I being careful and switches to asking me about whether weekly family meals might be possible once he moves back.

This last one . . . I leave unanswered, because it’s too complicated to unpack. If it was something Seba might enjoy, I’d be open, but . . .

I’m grateful the lunch rush is busier than usual; it gives me the excuse I need to stop answering my ex. The lunch rush is just ending when Brody arrives, even though he isn’t supposed to officially start until tomorrow.

Reuben and his cousin Mario are both here because of a last-minute catering request—which really means we’ve accepted a really, really large (in this case, fifty meals) to-go order. These are minimally profitable, because I feel guilty hiring Mario for just a few hours and end up paying two line cooks for an entire day, which barely balances out the additional revenue.

It’s something my parents did as a service to the community, because most of our larger orders come from local churches and schools. Still, it’s one of the many things I’m considering revamping, now that Brody’s taking over my position here. Without a website capable of taking orders, these are almost always word-of-mouth referrals, and if we could cater to younger tourists, especially ones comfortable swiping on their phone, I could see how we might grow our margins.

My mental list of things I want to try is suddenly overwhelmingly massive. Since Brody left last night, I’ve filled in my goals journal, adding addendums and Post-its of things I’d like to fix or improve, projects I want to research. I want to look into how other local cafés have grown, as well.

It’s been so long since I accepted the diner as my responsibility that I’ve stopped questioning whether it’s what I would have chosen. I’ve been too busy . . . existing.

Maybe sleepwalking a little.

Now, though, the gift of time, the freedom to plan and potentially implement, to look at competitors’ menus and see what the restaurants in Big Bear serve feels . . . glorious. Because apparently, even if I can’t answer whether I wanted to run the diner, I can attest, definitively and with confidence, that I’d love the opportunity to improve it.

Though I haven’t thought through what my non-Maggie staff would think about Brody stepping in for the next five weeks, I also . . . didn’t need to, apparently.

“Right on,” Reuben says, holding a fist out for Brody to bump.

Taking the cue from his older cousin, Mario follows suit. “Cool.”

Only Walter is visibly annoyed since he clearly believed that, without Maggie, he was next in the hierarchy.

“So what, I report to Brody now?”

The way Walter says Brody’s name is insulting, as if Walter, the perpetual stoner who can’t be trusted to arrive on time is insulted he has to be managed by my Ivy League–educated kind-of boyfriend.

“It’s an experiment,” Brody interjects, and I think this won’t work, except Walter’s eyes actually light up.

“Like science? Or TikTok?”