“The one that says, why am I here handing out nachos when I could be on a yacht or discovering myself in Bali?”
“I do not have that look,” I protest, though she’s not entirely wrong.
Maggie smirks. “Addy, you’ve been running on overdrive since high school. You organize everything — events, fundraisers, lives. Maybe it’s time to let loose a little.”
Before I can respond, a woman in a rhinestone-studded #1 Baseball Mom hoodie slaps a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Popcorn, no butter. And do you have bottled water?”
“We’re out of bottled water,” I chirp, sliding her change back. “But the soda machine’s extra fizzy tonight. That’s fun, right?”
The woman’s unimpressed glare is so sharp it could cut glass. She snatches her popcorn and stalks off without another word.
Maggie stifles a laugh. “Living the dream, huh?”
“Always,” I deadpan, leaning against the counter as a breeze wafts through the open window. The familiar buzz of the crowd hums in the background, parents cheering and kids chattering. It’s the soundtrack of Bluewater Cove, a town where everyone knows everyone, and the biggest drama is the occasional seagull heist.
Maggie nudges me, leaning against the counter as we watch the little league chaos unfold outside the shack. “Seriously, though. Do you ever think about leaving? You know, seeing what’s out there?”
I hesitate, the hot dog I’m holding teetering on the edge of the paper plate I placed it on. It’s a question I ask myself more than I’d like to admit. “I don’t know. I love this town. My parents are here. My business is here. But sometimes I wonder if I’m missing... something.”
“Something like a hot plumber to fix our soda machine?” Maggie quips, nodding toward the line of patrons.
“What?” I turn too quickly, the hot dog slipping out of my hands like a greasy torpedo. It arcs through the air in slow motion before landing with a sad bounce on the counter, only to finish its flight on the ground in front of the line of patrons.
Before I can grab a napkin to salvage my dignity, a man’s voice cuts through the chatter:
“Excuse me. I think this belongs to you.”
3
RELISH THE MOMENT
FRIDAY, AUGUST 29TH
Dylan
I spot the disaster midair — one rogue hot dog somersaulting off the counter, ketchup and mustard streaming like party confetti in slow-mo. Instinct kicks in: I lunge, snatch the thing between two fingers, then drop into a catcher’s squat to corral the rest of the mess before the SPLAT soundtrack in my head reaches its cymbal crash.
When I straighten, the snack bar captain of chaos is frozen on the other side of the counter. Sunshine-bronze curls, rainbow sprinkle stuck to her cheek as if the universe decided she needed a birthmark made of sugar. Eyes so wide I half expect an old-school cartoon booing to echo across the bleachers. She’s older than me, mid-thirties, but that only registers as knows what she’s doing, which makes my arrival with a dripping hot dog feel extra graceful.
“Guessing this isn’t on the menu,” I say, flicking the sad dog into the trash. Sauces splatter the liner with a perfect Jackson Pollock squelch. Nailed it.
“I was going to catch that,” she says, deadpan. “Eventually. Probably.”
“Oh yeah?” I grin. “Before or after it decorated the floor?”
“Depends how long gravity cooperated.”
That earns her a grin. Better.
I lean on the counter, propping one elbow like I have all the time in the world. “Do I get a prize for the save, or do we just pretend gravity never happened and quietly agree to blame the wind?”
She blinks, momentarily speechless, giving me time to notice the saying on her t-shirt — I run on coffee & spreadsheets. Figures.
Before she can muster a comeback, a woman in a navy Beavers cap rockets in, grin so big she must sleep in it. “That depends,” she says, practically vibrating. “Can you fix a soda machine?”
“Define fix.” I half smile. “I specialize in hitting things until they behave. Very sophisticated tech.”
“Sold!” She clamps onto my arm with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been drinking pure syrup and drags me behind the counter like a game-show host escorting the next brave contestant.
