Chapter 1
Ruby
The lunch rush at Rosie’s Diner is a full-blown circus. The smell of frying clams and bacon clings to the air, tangled with the tang of coffee that has been sitting on the warmer so long it probably remembers the Carter administration. Out on Willowport’s boardwalk, the gulls are screaming bloody murder over dropped fries, but in here, the only shrieking comes from the espresso machine that hates me personally.
I am running on caffeine, stubbornness, and the faint hope that I might pass my night class if I can keep my eyes open long enough to study. Sneakers sticking to the tile every few steps, I weave through tables with a tray in one hand and a decaf pot in the other. That is the trick here. Move like you mean it and people either tip better or at least avoid snapping their fingers at you.
In the corner booth, my little brother, Liam, is hunched over his math homework, murdering a pencil with his teeth. His milkshake has given up on being a milkshake and is now a sad, lukewarm puddle. He catches me watching and gives me a little grin before going back to pretending fractions are an act of war.
It is safer for him here than at our apartment. The diner might have chipped mugs and flickering neon, but it does not have neighbors screaming in the hallway or the occasional drunk pounding on the wrong door. Here, the only thing pounding is the fry cook flattening burger patties.
The bell over the door jingles, and in walks a man who clearly took a wrong turn somewhere. Tall, broad shoulders, clean white button-down, sleeves rolled like he has just stepped out of a lifestyle magazine called “Pretend to Work.” His hair is perfectly messy in that “I spent twenty minutes making it look like this” kind of way.
Paul waves him toward the back. “Matt, right? Grab an apron. Ruby will get you sorted.”
Fantastic. Exactly what I need. A new busboy. In the middle of the rush.
He gives me a smile that probably works on most people. It does not work on me. I have ketchup bottles to refill and a customer at Table Four making impatient eyebrow gestures.
He grabs an apron off the hook like it might bite him and fumbles with the strings. I watch him tie it in some kind of complicated knot that would look great on a Pinterest gift wrap board but is wildly impractical for bussing tables.
“Alright, rookie,” I say, grabbing a rag from the counter. “Your kingdom awaits.”
He blinks. “My… kingdom?”
“Table seven just finished. You’re about to learn the sacred art of scraping half-eaten omelets into the trash without gagging. Try to keep up. Shall we?”
I lead him to the booth, hand him the rag, and watch as he stares at the plates like they’re made of plutonium. He picks up a fork with two fingers, the way someone might handle a dead mouse.
“Careful,” I say, deadpan. “That’s stainless steel. Very dangerous.”
He flashes me a crooked smile that is definitely meant to charm, but it only makes me more suspicious. His hands are too clean. No calluses, no worn knuckles, no little burn marks from kitchen work. The man looks like his idea of heavy lifting is carrying a golf bag.
“You’ve never worked a day in your life, have you?” I ask.
He hesitates, then gives me a sheepish grin. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only in the way you’re holding that plate like it’s about to tell you its hopes and dreams.”
He laughs, and it’s warm and easy in a way I don’t expect. “My parents cut me off,” he says, setting the plate on the tray with exaggerated care. “Figured I should get a job before I start selling my organs.”
I shake my head and slide the rag across the table in front of him. “Well, welcome to Rosie’s. You last a week in this place, I’ll buy you a milkshake. You last a month, I’ll even throw in fries.”
His grin widens. “What if I last three months?”
I snort. “I wouldn’t count on it, but if you do...”
“Let’s go on a date.”
I stare at him for a beat, weighing whether he’s joking or just criminally overconfident. “You should focus on surviving the lunch rush first, Romeo.”
The smirk stays plastered on his face as I lead him toward the back counter. I show him how to stack plates in the bus tub without turning them into ceramic shrapnel, hand him the rag, and point him toward Table Nine. “Clear it quick and quiet,” I tell him. “And if you drop anything, at least make it look intentional.”
He nods like I’ve just entrusted him with a sacred mission.
I turn away for less than half a minute to refill a coffee pot. Behind me comes a sound like the gates of hell opening with metal clattering, ceramic shattering, and one long, low “oh no” that could only belong to a man watching his self-respect evaporate.
I pivot to find Matt standing in the middle of the wreckage. Half a dozen plates are scattered across the tile, one in pieces so fine they could be used as mosaic material. Syrup has splattered in an arc across the floor and table leg. A little boy in the next booth is staring at his pancakes like they’ve just survived a natural disaster.
Matt, for his part, is holding a single unbroken coffee cup in both hands as if he’s just rescued it from a burning building.
“First day,” I announce to the room as I grab the broom from behind the counter. “He’s still learning how gravity works.”
A ripple of laughter travels through the diner, a few regulars shaking their heads knowingly. Matt gives me that same sheepish half-smile from earlier, though there’s the faintest flicker of embarrassment behind it.
“Guess the date’s off then?” he mutters as I hand him the broom.
“Start sweeping, rookie,” I say. “You’ve got like two hundred and eighty more days left to impress me.”
I leave him there with his pile of broken china and head to the corner booth where Liam’s math homework has spread across the table like a crime scene. He looks up at me, glancing past my shoulder toward the mess.
“Who’s the new disaster?” he asks, pointing with his chewed up pencil.
“Matt,” I say, leaning in to check his work. “Or Romeo, if you want to make him twitch.”
Liam smirks. “How long do you think he’ll last?”
I glance back at the man now trying, and failing, to wrangle syrup with a mop. “If he makes it to Friday, it’ll be a miracle.”
Liam grins and goes back to scribbling numbers, and I return to the floor, wondering why on earth I’m already curious to see if he proves me wrong.
The lunch rush is still a living, breathing thing with clinking cutlery, overlapping conversations, and the hiss of the grill. I drop off two checks, grab an order for a BLT and a cup of chowder, and take a refill to Mrs. Hammond who is now pointedly ignoring Matt like he’s a bad smell that wandered too close to her table.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him wrestle with the mop as if it’s a dance partner with two left feet. He’s muttering to himself, probably trying to work out how to get syrup off tile without spreading it into a bigger disaster. He looks both out of place and stubborn enough to keep going, which is almost worse.
When the orders are squared away, I slip behind the counter where Paul is refilling the pie case. Paul has been running Rosie’s Diner since before I could reach the counter without a stool. He is in his seventies, built like a man who has hauled more crates of produce than he has seen birthdays, and has the patient expression of someone who knows every single person in Willowport, and probably their parents too. Rosie was his wife, gone almost a decade now, but her name is still on the sign and her recipes are still on the menu.
“Okay, I have to ask,” I say, leaning on the counter. “Why did you hire him? He’s clearly never worked a day in his life and you dropped him in here during a rush like he’s a seasoned pro.”
Paul doesn’t look up right away. He adjusts the tray of lemon meringue like it’s something delicate before closing the case with a soft click. “Because it’s something Rosie would’ve done.”
I cross my arms. “Rosie also would have taught him how to hold a fork.”
He chuckles, finally glancing at me. His eyes go soft in the way they always do when her name comes up. “She had a soft spot for strays. People who needed a place to land, even if they didn’t look like they belonged here, especially then.”
I glance toward Matt, who’s still trying to mop, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows now. He looks determined, even with the patchy job he’s doing. “That one’s not a stray. He’s a tourist who forgot to go home.”
“Maybe,” Paul says, turning back to the pie case. “Or maybe he’s just someone who hasn’t figured out where home is yet.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. “If he breaks anything else today, he’s buying the pie.”
Paul grins. “That’s the spirit.”
By the time the last customer leaves, the diner smells faintly of bleach and burnt coffee. The boardwalk outside is dark and quiet now and the seagulls are gone. Their squawking is now replaced by the low hum of the streetlights and the ocean just beyond.
Liam is sprawled in his usual corner booth with his hoodie pulled up and one arm hooked over his eyes like he’s blocking out the world.
Paul left twenty minutes ago, giving me his usual goodnight nod and muttering that I “shouldn’t work too hard.” That just leaves me and the new guy. He’s is still in the back, rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher like he’s trying to defuse a bomb. To his credit, he’s gotten faster in the last hour with less clinking and more stacking.
I hang my apron on its hook and wipe my hands on my jeans. I’m about to tell Liam it’s time to go when Matt comes out of the kitchen. His hair is tousled from steam and there’s the faint sheen of dishwater on his forearms. He hangs his apron beside mine and leans on the counter like he belongs there.
“Who’s the kid?” he asks, nodding toward the booth.
I follow his gaze, then look back at him. “That’s my little brother.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying Liam with a curiosity I don’t like. “Why’s he not home, in bed, or something?”
My shoulders stiffen. “Because he’s fine just where he is.”
His eyebrows lift, like he didn’t expect me to bite, but he doesn’t push it.
I step past him and stop beside the booth. “Liam. Let’s go.”
He groans but sits up, raking a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, yeah. I’m up.” He stuffs his notebook into his backpack and swings it over one shoulder, muttering something about how the diner seats are more comfortable than his bed.
We head toward the door, the soft jingle of the bell announcing our exit. Outside, the salty night air greets us with the ocean a dark stretch beyond the boardwalk. Liam shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket, falling into step beside me as we start the walk home. I don’t look back to see if Matt is still watching us.
