The Griddle looks exactlylike a diner should—worn vinyl booths the color of ketchup, counter stools that squeak when you swivel, and a waitress who calls everyonehonregardless of age, gender, or apparent life choices. The air smells like coffee and bacon grease, with undertones of maple syrup and judgment.
I’ve claimed the corner booth farthest from the door, laptop open to Zillow and a mug of coffee that’s been refilled three times already. The Wi-Fi password—GRIDDLE123—is taped to the register with the kind of yellowing scotch tape that probably predates streaming services.
“More coffee, hon?” Doris, according to her name tag, hovers with a pot that’s likely older than my career.
“Yes, please.” I slide my mug toward her. “And maybe another slice of that maple walnut pie?”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on my choice to have pie for breakfast. Another point for small-town living: emotional eating without the LA side order of nutritional shaming.
She shuffles away, and I turn back to my laptop. Zillow mocks me with brutal efficiency. I’ve spent the last hour researching options for the tiny disaster I now own, and they’re about as promising as my dating history. The property value is listed at less than what I paid—and that’s assuming the structure isn’t actively trying to murder itsinhabitants, which it absolutely is.
My phone buzzes with a text from Abby.
Status update? Has the hot lumberjack proposed yet? Have you been eaten by bears? DETAILS.
I type back:
No bears. No lumberjack. Just pie and Zillow regret. Drowning sorrows, trying to reverse-engineer my own rescue.
She replies instantly:
Pie > LA juice cleanse. Also: messes can be fixed. That’s literally what hot lumberjacks DO.
I’m about to respond when I catch snatches of conversation from the booth behind me.
“…another auction mistake. You’d think they’d stop selling that place.”
“Third one in five years. Remember that couple from Seattle?”
“Left after the first rain flooded the foundation. This one won’t last ‘til fall.”
I sink lower in my booth, suddenly very interested in the sticky laminated menu.
“Walt said she was wearing sequins.At an auction.For ahouse.”
“City people,” someone mutters, and it lands like a gavel.
I glance down at my outfit—black leggings, oversized sweater, outlet-mall boots. No sequins in sight today, though the infamous jacket is still folded in my suitcase, a glittery monument to champagne-induced hubris.
“The Sequin Shack’s gonna be another abandoned project by fall,” an older man declares, with the authority of someone who’s been proven right far too many times. “Mark my words.”
The Sequin Shack.Great. My house has a nickname. NotCharming Cottage.NotWoodland Escape.
A name that makes it sound like a failed disco-themed strip club.
My phone rings, mercifully cutting through the spiral. It’s the real estate agent I contacted this morning—Barbara something, the only listing agent in Maple Glen according to Google.
“Hello?” I answer quietly, aware that the diner has reached that mysterious lull where everyone stops talking at once.
“Ms. Winslow? Barbara Lawson from Pine Valley Realty. Got your message about the Hendricks property.”
“Yes, hi.” I drop my voice further. “I was wondering what my options might be for, um… selling the property.”
A pause, then a chuckle. Not a warm one.
“Well, I’ll be straight with you. That place has been a tough sell for years. Land’s decent, but the structure’s a liability. Previous owners couldn’t give it away.”
“But I just paid seventy-five thousand for it,” I whisper-hiss into the phone.
