Everyone in the small town of Hull knows two things. One: Jill Williams doesn't date, and two: Carson Blue is addicted to drugs.
When Carson decides to clean up his act and apply at Jill's family restaurant, she's less than enthused. Between school...
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SUNDAY SHIFTS ARE my favorite, partly because they're quiet, but mostly because Mr. Wilson and his lifelong best friend, Mr. Chen, come by to play checkers. The peachy-apricot glow of dawn paints the sky outside, and contentment rests over me like a warm blanket. After dropping off their plates of pancakes, I prop my hand on my hip and lean over their table.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson," I say, "but I think Mr. Chen has got you on this one."
"You think so, do you?" A sly smirk crosses Mr. Wilson's face as he taps his piece over the board. Mr. Chen tosses his moss-colored bucket hat on the table.
"Hey, at least I was on your side." I nudge him, and he wheezes out a laugh.
"Thank you, Jillian. I'll get him next time."
They always come bright and early, right before the breakfast rush. As they wait for their pancakes to cool, they reminisce about the old days—fishing in the lake, catching tadpoles in the pond, skiing down the hillside even though it was rocky and reckless. Mr. Chen even fractured his shin doing that once, but it didn't stop them from hitting the slopes again. I pull up a seat and listen. I love hearing them talk about their lives; I guess I'm an old soul. Maybe that's why I enjoy seeing my Dee's customers more than my classmates.
Carson's words from Friday surface in my mind, how he thinks he'll stay in Hull forever. When I'm an old lady living in the city, what types of stories will I tell about this place? I spend so much of my waking life dreaming about getting away, sometimes I forget to live in the moment. So I breathe in my surroundings; the table's wobbly but Mr. Wilson and Mr. Chen always pick it; the windows are smudgy but they still let the light in; the fabric of this chair is torn but a generation of Hull citizens have sat on it. It's all beautiful in its own, characteristic way. And I guess, sometimes, I do love it here.
My phone dings in the pocket of my apron and I quickly check it—another notification from YouTube. People actually like my song. I smile at my screen, pride rising in me.
"What's that grin for, Jillie?" Mr. Wilson asks, still focused on the checker board.
I slip my phone back into my pocket. "Someone just commented on my video and said they like my singing," I tell him. "I just uploaded it the other day, but I already have a few thousand views."
"You doing that Tube thing again?" Mr. Chen asks, and I laugh.
"Yes, YouTube. It's how I get feedback on my work."
"Your dad can get your music out there, can't he?" Mr. Wilson asks.
A pause. It stings to hear about my dad so casually, but I can't expect Mr. Wilson to be caught up on my relationship with my dad—everyone in town knows he left, but some people probably assume we still talk. We don't.
"I don't want my dad to promote me," I say. "I like knowing my success is my own and not his, you know? Besides, I haven't talked to him in a while."
A heaviness hangs in the air; my dad's ghost haunting me. He never even stepped foot in this diner, but sometimes I feel him here—imagine how life would be if he stuck around. Maybe he'd be the one working to help my mom stay on top of things, and not Carson Blue.
