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Chapter Eight: Jade

I pushed the door open, the jingle of the bell announcing my arrival more confidently than I felt. The Harbor Cove Diner embraced me with the aroma of coffee and sizzling bacon, an olfactory nudge that did little to settle my nerves. Weeks had slipped by since I’d landed in this picturesque town, a fugitive from a life too dangerous to cling to. Dante hadn’t found me yet, hadn’t turned my new haven into a hunting ground, and for that, I was silently thankful.

But I was also a little mad. I missed him. I had left everything so I wouldn’t have to turn on him.

And he wasn’t even looking for me.

But it wasn’t like I could call and ask what the hell was going on, so…I told myself to get a grip and start my work day.

“Ah, you must be Jade!” The voice shattered my momentary relief, pulling me back to the task at hand. “My wife said you came in looking for work.”

I had. Part of me was hoping I wasn’t going to get any, but the kind owner decided to give me a chance right then and there, and I needed a distraction.

I turned to see Mr. Thompson approaching, his gait steady and sure despite his age, a warm grin creasing his weathered face. Beside him stood Mrs. Thompson, her eyes crinkling in a welcoming smile. They were as much fixtures of this place as the checkered tablecloths and worn counter stools.

“Welcome to our little family,” Mrs. Thompson said, her voice as inviting as the diner itself. “We’re so glad to have you on board.”

“Thank you,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. My hands twisted together, betraying my composure.

“Let’s introduce you to everyone.” Mr. Thompson gestured toward the kitchen, beckoning me to follow.

As we made the rounds, each staff member greeted me with nods and smiles, their faces blurring into a montage of Harbor Cove’s hospitality. Every introduction was a thread weaving me tighter into the fabric of this community, a tapestry far removed from sterile labs and the shadow of the Moretti empire.

“Everyone’s real friendly here,” Mr. Thompson assured me, clapping a reassuring hand on my shoulder before he shuffled off to tend to a sputtering coffee machine.

“Everyone” included a cook with a laugh as hearty as his burgers and a waitress whose quick wit rivaled any repartee I’d encountered in academic circles. It was clear that survival here depended not on evading danger but on mastering the art of diner small talk and perfecting the delicate dance of balancing trays.

“Alright, Jade, think you can handle it?” Mrs. Thompson asked, her gaze appraising yet kind.

“Absolutely,” I replied, though really, I was fucking scared. Being a waitress seemed way harder than anything I’d ever done.

“Great! Let’s get you started,” she said, motioning to an apron that hung like a rite of passage on a nearby hook.

Slipping into the apron, I felt the weight of a new identity settling around me—not just Jade Bentley, scientist, but Jade, the waitress who’d find sanctuary among the ebb and flow of coffee refills and lunch rushes. With a deep breath, I stepped behind the counter and into my new life.

I shadowed a woman whose name I couldn’t remember and she slowly got me up to speed. I was right; it was hard and I wasn’t good at it, but it provided the perfect distraction. I didn’t want to think about Dante. I didn’t want to think about being pregnant.

I just wanted to think about the next order.

And days passed like that, and then they turned into weeks. Mrs. Thompson had probably only given me a chance because I had started to show and she thought I was a poor single woman about to have a baby who had left her deadbeat baby daddy.

Which, really, I sort of had.

But I didn’t want to think about it like that.

The chime of the door announced another customer, and with an affable smile, I approached the booth. “Good afternoon, what can I get for you today?” The words tumbled out, surprisingly natural against the hum of the diner.

“Whatcha recommend, darlin’?” the man asked, tipping his hat back with a weathered hand.

“Today’s special is the meatloaf,” I suggested. “It’s like comfort on a plate.”

“Sold,” he said, with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

As I scribbled down the order, my mind couldn’t help but drift to the lab at BioHQ, where precision ruled and the stakes were high. There was something oddly comforting about the routine here, yet I ached for the thrill of discovery, the eureka moments that had defined my career as a scientist. In stolen moments, I sketched protein structures on napkins and jotted down ideas for experiments, though they felt like messages in bottles tossed into an ocean of what-ifs.

“Jade, table four needs a top-up on their coffee,” Mrs. Thompson called out, snapping me back to reality.

“Got it,” I replied, pouring the dark liquid into waiting cups, exchanging pleasantries with patrons whose faces were becoming familiar.

When my break finally arrived, I sank into a booth with a sigh, the scent of freshly baked pie mingling with the robust aroma of coffee. Mrs. Thompson slid into the seat opposite me, her presence as comforting as the homemade quilts that adorned the diner’s walls.

“Bet this is a bit different from your old job, huh?” she asked, her voice carrying the wisdom of years spent within these walls.

“More than you know,” I admitted, giving her a wry smile. I stopped myself from telling her what it was–all I had told her was that I used to work in a lab, and I’d let her believe I was working in the cafeteria.

“Life has a funny way of taking us places we never imagined,” Mrs. Thompson mused, her eyes reflecting memories of days gone by. “This place started as nothing more than a dream and two pairs of hands willing to work ’til they were raw.”

“Seems like you built something wonderful,” I observed, glancing around at the cozy ambiance that spoke of love and dedication poured into every detail.

“Yeah,” she said. “The restaurant is good. The community is even better. You’ll start feeling it, you know, the longer you’re here for.”

Her words settled over me, a gentle reminder that even without lab coats and beakers, life was still a series of experiments—some yielding success, others lessons to be learned.

But I didn’t give myself a lot of time to think about it.

Every day was the same. I took as many shifts as I could, tried to keep myself occupied, and was exhausted by the end of the day.

The sizzle of the grill was my new morning alarm, each pop and crackle a reminder that life at the Cove Inn Diner unfolded with an energy all its own. While I expertly balanced plates along my forearm, navigating between tables with a grace I didn’t know I possessed, the undercurrent of nausea reminded me that something more than just the aroma of frying bacon lingered in the air.

“Morning, Jade,” called out Lou, one of our regulars, as he settled into his usual booth. “The usual, please, and make the coffee extra strong today.”

“Coming right up,” I replied with a practiced smile, scribbling down his order. My mind was busy cataloguing the breakfast preferences of Harbor Cove’s early risers.

“Hey, you okay?” asked Rosie, the diner’s veteran waitress, her eyes narrowing with concern as she caught me pressing a hand to my stomach.

“Just the little one saying ‘hello,’” I quipped, trying to brush off the wave of dizziness. She offered me a knowing smirk before heading back to the kitchen.

“Here’s your breakfast, Lou,” I said minutes later, setting down his plate with a flourish. “Eggs over easy, wheat toast, no butter, and hash browns extra crispy. And your coffee—dark as midnight and twice as potent.”

“You’re the best, Jade. This place hasn’t felt this alive in years,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee and winking appreciatively.

“Thanks, Lou.” I smiled genuinely, warmed by his compliment. The diner’s clatter and hum were a stark departure from the sterile silence of BioHQ’s labs, but here, amidst the banter and the daily grind, I was carving out a space for myself, even if it was worlds away from where I’d begun.

And the day passed like that.

The clatter of dishes and the soft hum of the refrigerator were the only sounds in the Cove Inn diner as I wiped down the last table, my movements slow and deliberate. Mrs. Thompson, her silver hair catching the glow of the overhead lights, stacked chairs with a care that spoke of years tending to this place.

“Need a hand with those?” I offered, tossing the rag over my shoulder.

“Thank you, dear,” she replied, her voice a soothing timbre after the day’s bustle. “But let’s sit a moment, hm? My old bones could use the break.”

We settled into a booth by the window, the one with a view of the harbor where shadows played on the water’s surface. The silence was comfortable, a companionable stillness stretching between us.

“Jade,” she began, her gaze softening, “I’ve watched you these past weeks, how you carry yourself. You’ve got strength in you, more than you might realize.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Thompson,” I said, feeling the weight of her words settle over me like a blanket. I was aware she was saying it because she was feeling sorry for me, but I appreciated it nevertheless. “This place feels like a strange kind of home now.”

“Good,” she said. “It suits you. I know you’re here alone, and you’ll need to make plans for when the baby is born, so start thinking about it. Alright?”

I nodded. “Thank you,” I whispered, my throat tight with emotion. “For the job, for...for this.” I gestured around the empty diner, at the life I never planned but somehow needed.

“Thank you for bringing your light into our little corner of the world,” Mrs. Thompson replied, giving my hand one final squeeze before standing. “Now, let’s get those chairs down. We open early tomorrow, and the world doesn’t stop turning for late-night heart-to-hearts.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said with a soft laugh, rising to join her in the closing routine. As I moved through the motions, the comforting rhythm of the diner wrapped around me, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of belonging that reached deep into my bones. Here, in Harbor Cove, perhaps I could truly start anew.

The chill of the late afternoon air nipped at my cheeks as I stepped out of the Cove Inn diner, pulling my coat tighter around me. Harbor Cove was quiet, the usual hustle of tourists and locals thinned by the winter season. My breath formed small clouds of mist as I wandered down the cobblestone streets, the rhythmic sound of my boots against the stone a solitary echo in the calm.

I turned a corner, and there it was – the harbor. Sailboats swayed gently in their berths, their masts clicking softly like a subtle, natural percussion. The sea was a sheet of pewter under the overcast sky, and I paused to watch the waves roll in, steady and soothing. It was moments like these that made the past weeks feel like a distant nightmare.

“New in town?” A voice rang out from behind me, causing me to jump slightly. I turned to see an old man leaning against the frame of his shop door, a pipe perched between his lips.

“Is it that obvious?” I replied with a half-smile.

“Harbor Cove has a memory like an elephant,” he chuckled. “Enjoying the view?”

“Very much so,” I said, before continuing down the street, leaving the man to his quiet contemplation.

Further along, nestled between a florist bursting with hues of winter blooms and a bakery sending out tempting aromas of fresh bread, was a small bookstore that seemed to beckon me closer. Its windows were adorned with displays of classic literature and promising new releases, both begging for attention.

I pushed open the door, a bell chiming above me, and stepped into a world lined with shelves upon shelves of books. The scent of aged paper and ink filled the air, a stark difference from the sterile environment of the lab I was used to. I ran my fingers along the spines, each title a whisper of another life, another world to get lost in.

Hours slipped by unnoticed as I delved deeper into the stacks, picking up novels and thumbing through pages, allowing myself to be immersed in the poetry of words and the escapism they offered. I found solace in the silence and the stories, a respite from the relentless pursuit of answers that had once consumed my every waking moment.

“Find anything good?” the clerk asked as she passed by, her eyes bright with the shared secret of book lovers everywhere.

“Too many to choose from,” I admitted, holding up a particularly worn copy of a science fiction classic.

“Ah, a fellow traveler of imaginary realms,” she smiled. “Take your time, Harbor Cove isn’t going anywhere.”

“Thanks,” I responded, my heart a little lighter. I placed the book back on the shelf, making a mental note to return for it later. As I left the cozy confines of the store, the crisp air greeted me again, but this time, it didn’t feel quite so cold. Harbor Cove, with its quiet charm and unexpected sanctuaries, was slowly but surely wrapping itself around my weary heart.

Chopping onions wasn’t exactly rocket science, but as my knife rhythmically diced them into uniform cubes, I found the activity soothing. The sizzle that greeted them as they hit the hot pan was my new favorite sound, a far cry from the sterile silence of BioHQ’s labs. My apartment in Harbor Cove was small, yet it offered enough space for culinary experiments. With each stir and taste, I was crafting more than just a meal; I was creating a life that was entirely mine, untethered from the shadows that had chased me here.

I glanced around the kitchenette, where pots bubbled with promise. My hands, once steady holding pipettes and petri dishes, now maneuvered spatulas and spoons with growing confidence. On tonight’s menu: a hearty vegetable stew, its recipe a page torn from a cookbook discovered during my bookstore sanctuary visit. As aromas filled the space, there was a certain irony in finding such joy in the alchemy of flavors, when my life’s work had been rooted in an entirely different kind of chemistry.

After dinner, I turned to the blank canvas propped up in the corner of the room, my makeshift studio bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. A set of acrylics lay scattered on the floor, vibrant colors beckoning. Painting was my silent rebellion against the precision of my past—a world where every detail was measured, every outcome hypothesized. Here, the only hypothesis was what would happen if I let my heart guide my hand.

The brush felt heavy at first, as if it knew the weight of the secrets I carried. But as strokes layered upon strokes, hues blending into something unexpected, the tension eased from my shoulders. This was no data to analyze, no conclusions to draw. Just the freedom of expression, my emotions spilling onto the canvas in a riot of color that didn’t need to make sense to anyone else but me.

I stepped back, my gaze taking in the chaotic beauty of my creation. It was raw, it was real—it was me. Harbor Cove might have been a detour in my meticulously planned life journey, but as I looked around my rustic refuge, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, I was exactly where I needed to be.

And that was when the doorbell began to ring.