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NINE

AMOS

“You have arrived.”

At the masculine, posh English-accented voice of my GPS, I parked in front of a full-grown Red Maple in the front yard of the house on my right. “This place is cute.”

Mickey’s house wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d pictured him in a nondescript one-bedroom apartment similar to Sage’s, not a two-story house with a darling porch and white lap siding.

The place was modest and well-kept among similar homes on the quiet residential street.

His was on the end at a curve in the road and faced away from the others, which gave it nice privacy.

The porch was perfect for enjoying a beer on a warm summer evening and patriotic bunting for Independence Day. Or even better, Pride bunting in June.

A light next to the door illuminated the house number, which I double-checked before getting out of my car.

The brisk November air was a stark contrast to the face-melting heat blowing from my car’s vents on the ride over.

I tightened my grip on the neck of the wine bottle as I walked up the driveway to the right of the house and past Mickey’s Subaru. Of course he was a Subaru guy.

I didn’t know anything about Mickey’s financial situation, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being surprised he could afford a house like this on a diner salary.

Even if he ran the business and Red’s was raking in the dough, housing prices were ridiculous these days.

Maybe Mickey had a naughty side hustle. I would throw my wallet at him if he had videos stripping out of his flannel and jeans. Nngh.

The porch steps creaked, and as I reached the front door, I hesitated.

Meeting at a neutral location like Special Blend was one thing, but Mickey’s place was hardly neutral.

What if I saw something that made me like him more?

Like a cat? Or one of those floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with a ladder?

Not to mention the proximity to a bed. Sweet temptation.

I inhaled a fortifying breath and raised my fist to knock. Before it made contact, the door swung open to reveal Mickey in worn jeans that hugged his thighs and a flannel, this time in shades of blue.

“Were you watching for me?”

Mickey’s eyes widened. “What? No. The light is motion-activated.”

“Likely story.” I grinned and handed him the wine.

“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t see the tripwire.” Mickey grinned, then glanced at the label. “Cabernet Sauvignon is my favorite. Thanks. Come in.” He stepped back and gestured for me to enter.

“To be honest, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between that and a red blend, but the person working at the store said it was a local favorite.

” I noticed the small rug next to the door with an orderly row of shoes.

Following suit, I kicked mine off. “The general store has changed so much since we were kids. It’s got quite the selection of local booze. ”

“Not a wine guy, huh?”

“I like it—red more than white—but I haven’t had the chance to learn the nuances.”

“We should add wine to the Christmas Eve dinner. Then we can use it as an excuse to go wine tasting.” Mickey’s eyes widened as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Great idea.” I smiled, and, okay, maybe it was a little flirty. I couldn’t help it! Mickey was adorable, and I was stuck with mere human willpower.

Before I had a chance to take in the space, I noticed the pleasant scent of fir trees. It wasn’t the cloying chemical smell found in a lot of candles but something more natural, like walking through a forest while hunting for the perfect Christmas tree.

“It smells great in here,” I said as I followed Mickey deeper into his home. It had an eclectic mix of quilts and furniture, similar to what my grandparents had before they moved to Florida, with landscape photos and art pieces on the walls that brought a more modern touch.

“Thanks. I get candles from the Honey Spot. They’re made of beeswax, and I melt them under a candle lamp. It seems safer than lighting them. Nervous about housefires.”

My shoulders tensed while following Mickey into the kitchen.

I barely noticed the rooster plates above the cabinets as my memories took me back over twenty years to the grease fire in the Sparky’s kitchen while Mom taught Sage and me how to make french fries.

We’d been lucky that Mom had been able to douse it before it’d done too much damage.

Whether it’d been my brain or reality, I’d smelled burned things for months.

After swallowing a couple of times, I found my voice. “Me too. Ever since the kitchen fire at Sparky’s, I’ve developed a pretty big fear of them. I never leave the house without double-checking that the stove is off, even if I haven’t used it.”

Mickey paused next to a snack board on the kitchen island and turned to face me, staring deep into my eyes.

He closed the distance and squeezed my arm, then let his fingertips fall away.

“Shit, I forgot that happened. I’m so sorry.

That had to be terrifying. The diner is like a second home.

It would be traumatizing to see all that damage. ”

The earnestness in his voice made my stomach flip-flop. Other than Sage, Mickey was the only other person I knew who understood what it was like growing up in a restaurant. How, some days, it was the last place you wanted to be, and others, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

He held my stare, and I suspected his mind had traveled a similar path. Instead of avoiding Mickey all those years, I probably should’ve befriended him. Not that our families or the community would’ve supported it. It’s not too late now.

No one needed to know if Mickey and I became buddies.

We could text sometimes when I returned to Boston.

I suspected he was planning to take over Red’s like Sage was Sparky’s, and I could be a sounding board or support occasionally.

The more the idea formed, the more I liked it.

I didn’t want to leave Mickey behind when I left Maplewood.

We could have a good friendship, and I always liked having more friends.

I was overwhelmed by an urge to pepper him with questions about his perspective on the diner feud, his take on our school years, and the juicy gossip he knew I’d never heard. Instead, I turned my attention to the snack board he’d assembled.

“May I?” I reached toward the food he’d set out.

One side of Mickey’s mouth pulled back in a small smile. “No, I thought I’d eat it in front of you.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. You’re feeding the enemy.” I winked and spread the herb-covered soft cheese onto a cracker. I’d always been a dairy slut. Even during the dark period when I’d suspected I was lactose intolerant, I kept eating cheese.

The creamy texture was elevated by an unexpected hint of lemon. “Oh damn, that’s delicious. Is that local too?”

I couldn’t read Mickey’s expression as he studied me closely. It was probably some new local artisan cheese brand that was all the rage.

“It is. Try it with the honey. It brings out the lemon zest.”

I eagerly followed his directions. “Mm. Damn. So good,” I spoke while chewing. “You gotta tell me where to buy this. Sage would love it.”

Mickey’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You think it’s good?”

“Dude, it’s amazing . It makes me wish I knew more about wine so I could do some pairing.”

“It’s not currently for sale. I’ve got a, uh, special hookup, but I might be able to get you some.”

“That would be fantastic,” I said with a mouthful of cheese and cracker. I needed to slow down before I ate it all.

Mickey was cute with any expression, but he was devastatingly handsome when he smiled.

I’d noticed his smiles in school, but they were never aimed at me when they did come out.

He’d always been on the quiet side, but he seemed to let loose with his friends.

Unfortunately, our lives, families, and circumstances had prevented us from freely sharing smiles with each other.

“Can you take the tray to the living room while I grab two glasses and the wine?”

“You’re leaving me alone with the cheese? Foolish man.” I smiled to myself as I returned to the living room while he laughed in the kitchen.

I set the tray in the middle of the coffee table, then settled on one end of the couch. It showed significant restraint that I didn’t put the tray on my side of the table.

Mickey joined me a minute later with two wine glasses in one hand and the open bottle in the other.

He poured each of us a glass before sitting on the other end of the three-seat, floral couch.

It was hard to imagine it was his style.

Was he house-sitting for someone? That might explain how he could afford it.

Mickey picked up a notepad from the table and poised a pen over it. I was glad he was taking this seriously. I pulled out my phone and opened the Notes app, where I’d jotted down ideas while doing research and talking to my parents.

“How do you want to go about this? Work our way through each course?”

“Sounds good.” I carefully drizzled honey over another chunk of cheese. “Are there any recipes you’re particularly stoked about incorporating?”

“Actually, yeah. There’s a casserole from the original Red’s menu. Grandpa used to cook it for us when we were kids. Full of cheese and carbs.”

We? Oh. Right. Mickey’s older brother. It was impossible to live in the same town and not know of the tragedy, but I hadn’t thought of it in so long.

I remember Mom and Dad getting flak for not sending flowers to the funeral home, but they’d sent them directly to the Brewers.

It wasn’t about showing off and being performative but rather expressing genuine condolences that transcended the rivalry.

“Yum. That sounds good. From Sparky’s, I’d love to include our meatloaf. It’s a customer favorite, but Dad said it’s been around since the beginning. They found an earlier version of the recipe, but it hasn’t changed much.”