You Again | Editing

Chapter 2

"You look tired," the sweet elderly patron I've come to know as Joyce comments as I'm setting her and her husband's mugs of coffee down on the table. They're regulars at Dawson's Diner, and more often than not, I'm their waitress. 

Her short, puffy white hair absorbs the fluorescent lighting above her, and her aquamarine eyes fill with concern as she takes in my appearance. "Have you been getting enough rest?" she questions, and I shake my head, blowing out a short laugh. 

"Um, no, not really," I reply, retrieving my notepad from my apron to take their orders, even though I'm certain they'll get their usual. "I've been taking extra shifts and working overtime at both of my jobs so I can finish saving money up for a car and a downpayment for a house."

Henry, Joyce's husband, glances up at me, then at Joyce before saying, "If you're looking to lease, I know of a house that'll be going up for rent soon."

"You do?" 

He nods his head repeatedly, his blue-gray eyes holding mine intently. "Yes. It's a couple blocks over from where we live. My son owns the property, and he and my grandsons are working on it right now, preparing it for the next tenant. He doesn't charge an arm and a leg and an organ for rent either, so if you're moving in by yourself—"

"I am," I cut in, my heart thumping wildly in my chest and energy surging through my veins. "Can you give me the address?" Henry nods, and I quickly scrawl down the address on my notepad before taking their orders. Two bacon and egg sandwiches with a side of hashbrowns. The usual.

As I'm turning on my heel to give the cook their orders, Joyce calls, "Actually, make that three bacon and egg sandwiches with a side of hashbrowns, Kasey. Two for here and one to go, please." I nod my head, acknowledging her addition to the order.

Guilt fills my chest at an instant as I head into the kitchen. 

Kasey—the name I strictly use for my job at the diner. Because not everyone that comes in here is as nice and respectful as Joyce and Henry are. And I'm not referring to the customers that get mad at me when their food comes out cold or their burger is undercooked, I'm referring to the drunk men that stumble in from the bar next door and harass me and say crude things. And the last thing I need or want is some asshole learning my identity and finding me. 

Perhaps I'm being overly precautious. But in this unpredictable world we live in, it's better to be safe than sorry. 

But that still doesn't erase the guilt I feel over leaving sweet Henry and Joyce to believe my name is something that it isn't. 

The cook slams his glove-clad hand on the bell. "Table seven's order is ready," he notifies, and I grab the plates and bring them to Joyce and Henry's table. 

"Thank you, sweetheart," they chorus, flashing me smiles of appreciation. 

"Not a problem," I assure. "You guys need anything else?"

"Nope, that's it—" 

"Are you single, Kasey?" Joyce inquires, cutting her husband's sentence off short. "I mean, I just assumed because you said you'd be living alone."

"Yes," I reply without missing a beat. 

I'm not usually shy when it comes to talking about my relationship status—mostly because there's nothing to talk about. I've never had a boyfriend in my twenty years of existence, and anyone I've ever liked or was interested in, I lost feelings for before we could reach that level. And anyone that's shown interest in me, I've rarely ever liked back.

"How in the hell can a girl as pretty and nice as you are be single?" she asks, absently stirring her coffee, the metal spoon clinking and scraping against the ceramic at the action. 

"I'm not exactly . . . looking, I guess," I say.

"How come?"

"I'm just not," is all I can come up with. I glance over my shoulder, searching for an out, and, thankfully for me, a group of customers walk in and take a seat at one of my tables. "I have to go, I'll see you guys later."

"Are you going to check out that house?" Henry asks as I go to turn away. "I'm sure you'll love it."

I nod my head repeatedly, smiling. "Yes, after work."

***

From what I can see of the house Joyce and Henry told me about, it's gorgeous. It's a small, yellow single-family home and sits atop a decent piece of land that's enclosed with a six-foot privacy fence.

The sound of a door creaking open and closing shut spooks me. My eyes dart up to see a man standing on the porch, staring at me with his arms crossed over his stomach and a cocky half-smile on his face. He has dark hair and eyes, he's fairly tall with an average-sized build. 

Attractive? Yes. 

The arrogant way in which he carries himself? No.

"Like what you see?" the man asks in a flirtatious tone, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows. 

"Yes. The house is charming, unlike you." His cocky expression morphs into a wounded one from my verbal hit below the belt. I turn on my heel, walking toward my bike.

"I was talking about the house," he calls after me, trying to play it off. "If you're interested, I can give you my Dad's info. We'll be done fixing it up in a couple of weeks, just tearing up the carpet and painting now."

Intrigued, I slowly turn around to face him again, and, after a few beats, I nod my head and he hands me a white business card with black writing. The card reads, Snyder's Contracting, and below that, is Jason's Dad's name, Dick Snyder.

Whatta name, I think, Joyce and Henry must really love their son.