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EVE

You’re okay. You’re fine. Just breathe.

The nausea twisting in my gut didn’t agree, but I clung to the lie like a lifeline. One breath in. One out. The worst of it passed.

The sizzle of burgers hit me next, followed by the sharp stench of grease and burnt coffee. My head throbbed harder, the noise and heat pressing down like a vise.

The mac and cheese in the oven was overdue.

The fryer oil needed changing. Tickets lined up above the prep station like a chorus of demands.

My body moved on autopilot, muscles aching with every step.

It wasn’t just the hangover—it was everything.

Long shifts. Sleepless nights. The crushing weight of feeling stuck.

I slapped two plates onto the pass.

“Service!” My voice was hoarse, and I doubted any of the servers heard me.

“Rough night, huh?” Sam’s voice floated over from the grill. He flipped a burger without missing a beat, blond hair flopping into his boyish features.

Usually, his relentless optimism made the kitchen feel lighter. Today, it felt like sandpaper on my nerves. The way he whistled, oblivious to the tension simmering under my skin, made me want to snap.

“Don’t start,” I muttered to his amusement. I grabbed another ticket, the motion turned my stomach, and I swallowed back a gag.

Darcy had suggested drinks—she always did.

Being a stay-at-home mom left her desperate for excuses to escape the house.

She talked about her kids constantly, but it was obvious she needed the break.

Lila had shown up in one of her effortless, lawyer-on-the-rise outfits, long blond hair and manicured nails gleaming like a punchline.

Next to her, I looked hopeless with my grease-stained uniform and under-eye bags.

They had homes, careers, and families. I had burgers. And the void.

I hadn’t said much at drinks last night, hadn’t joined in their stories. I just kept the smile on my face and the drinks flowing. And now, between the hangover and the grind, I wasn’t sure what I regretted more—the cocktails or the company.

The mac and cheese bubbled angrily in the oven, edges crisping too fast. I yanked it out with a thin dish towel, dropping it heavily on the counter.

The diner was packed, but at least it kept me busy.

Starlight Diner sat in the middle of nowhere, halfway between small towns and long-haul highways.

Most of our customers were truckers or road-tripping families looking for cheap food and strong coffee.

But today, it felt like all of Virginia was passing through.

I grabbed more plates and pushed through the swinging door. The dining room buzzed—checkered tiles worn smooth by decades of feet, waitresses weaving between congested tables. Outside, the highway stretched beyond a canopy of changing leaves.

Inside, everything was the same. The same black-and-white photos lined the walls, including the one of Harold standing proud outside the diner, grinning widely.

Next to it was a photo of me at eight, standing on a milk crate beside the grill in an apron twice my size, Harold beaming at me like I’d won the lottery.

I’d been happy in that photo, though I couldn’t remember why.

A crayon flew past my head, yanking me back to the now. Two kids fought over fries while their parents scrolled on their phones. A trucker nursed his coffee in silence. A young couple at the counter leaned in close, lost in soft touches and low laughter.

“Here you go,” I said, sliding burgers in front of them. No ‘thanks’. Not even a glance. I moved on, topping off coffees like clockwork.

“Everything good here?” I asked, the words flat. A nod from table three. A distracted smile at table eight.

“Hey! What are you deaf or something, lady?”

A teenage boy waved me down from the far booth. His friends nudged each other, snickering. I approached slowly, already bracing for it.

“This steak’s undercooked,” he said, pointing at his plate with theatrical disgust. His voice dripped with smug satisfaction.

“You ordered it rare,” I forced a tight smile.

“Well, I’m not eating this. It’s basically raw. Do I look like a caveman?”

His friends burst into loud, pointed laughter. My grip on the coffee pot tightened.

“I’ll fix it,” I said, each word carved out like a curse.

“Yeah, you do that.”

I snatched the plate and stalked to the kitchen, their laughter following like a bad song stuck in my head. Sam saw my face and wisely said nothing as I slammed the steak into the pan. Only when it started to burn did I remove it.

The charred meat looked pitiful next to the congealed fries, but what did I know? I was just the cook.

“Here you go,” I said, slamming the plate in front of the boy.

His friends erupted in laughter as he jabbed his fork at the steak.

“What the hell is this?” he said, loud enough for half the diner to hear.

“This is well-done,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to be.

“Lady, even I can see this is burnt.”

My vision narrowed. Pulse pounding. “If it’s not to your liking,” I said sweetly, “we have an excellent selection of kids’ meals.”

The smirk vanished, a flush creeping up his neck.

“You can’t talk to me like that! I’m a paying customer!”

“Then don’t come into my kitchen and tell me how to do my job!” The words tore out before I could stop them. The diner fell quiet, tension crackling.

“Oh yeah? Maybe if you knew how to cook, I wouldn’t have to.”

“How dare you—”

“Eve!”

Louise’s voice sliced through the silence. I froze, heat flooding my face as I turned to see her at the edge of the dining car, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Let’s go,” she said. No room for argument. “Now.”

I followed her, every eye in the diner burning into my back.

A photo caught my gaze in the hall—a younger Louise, smiling as she handed a milkshake to a little girl with messy brown curls and a face smeared in chocolate.

She wasn’t smiling at me now.

Louise opened her office door.

“Sit,” she said, nodding to the settee.

I sank into the worn cushions. She eased into her chair, elbows braced on the desk. Her voice gentled, but the edge remained.

“You’ve worked here most of your life, Eve, and I’ve never seen you snap like that. What’s going on? Do you need a day off?”

I stiffened. “No. I’m fine, just a little hungover. I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not fine,” she said, steady but firm. “You’ve been on edge for weeks. Today has Lila’s tequila sunrises written all over it, but this goes deeper. Call it your aunt’s intuition.”

Aunt . The word always felt strange. She wasn’t family—not by blood—but she’d been more of a mother than mine ever was.

The one who left me on her boss’s doorstep with promises she never meant.

Louise took me in without question, juggling the diner and her grandfather’s care while trying to comfort a terrified seven-year-old who didn’t understand why she’d been abandoned.

Harold taught me to cook and gave me a future. Louise sacrificed everything so I’d have a home.

And I was letting both of them down.

Looking at her now twisted something sharp in my chest. Her face was etched with exhaustion. The diner wasn’t thriving—it was surviving—and I knew she needed me.

“I’m just tired,” I muttered. “It’s been a long week.”

Louise sighed, her chair groaning as she leaned back. “It’s been longer than that. You’re working doubles, skipping breaks, and barely eating. You’re going to burn out.”

She reached across the desk, and I met her halfway, our fingers entwining.

“Take care of yourself, Eve,” she said softly. “We’re understaffed tomorrow, so I’ll need you to come in, but how about taking the weekend off?”

Every instinct screamed to argue, but her sincere eyes stopped me.

“Okay,” I whispered.

She squeezed my hand before letting go. “Take as long as you need. Clear your head. And stick to the kitchen for the rest of the shift.”

I nodded. She crossed the office, pausing to squeeze my shoulder before leaving. The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence settled over me like a weight. My eyes drifted to the photo above her desk—taken just after we moved to Alton Creek. Harold in the center, arm around Louise. My mom beside him, hand on my shoulder, beaming. Her smile was bright. Effortless. So full of what I once thought was love.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I muttered, pressing my hands to my thighs and standing.

Work. I needed to work.

The noise of the diner surged back the second I stepped through the kitchen doors—shouts, clatter, laughter. It didn’t matter that it was the last place I wanted to be.

It was a distraction.

And right now, that was enough.