Page 5 of Life After You

I watch the exchange, feeling oddly comforted by the easy normalcy of it. Outside, the rain streaks the windows, turning the city lights into a kaleidoscope of reds and yellows. Through the haze, I can just make out a streetcar rumbling by, its wheels screeching faintly as it slows at the corner. The sidewalk outside glistens, reflecting the glow of the coffee shop across the street and the string lights hanging from nearby lampposts.

When Patty comes back to the counter, I clear my throat. “Do you happen to know if you’re hiring? I’m… new in town and looking for work.”

Her eyes soften as she studies me. “We might be able to use an extra set of hands. You ever worked in a diner before?”

I nod quickly. “Yeah. A little. Back home.”

“Well, that’s good enough for me,” she says, winking. “Come by tomorrow morning, meet the breakfast rush. We’ll see how you do.”

Relief blooms in my chest, and I grip the mug tighter. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Patty slides a fresh pastry across the counter toward me, the golden crust still warm, the scent of butter and sugar wrapping around me like a hug. “On the house,” she says with a knowing smile, like she already expects me to argue.

Before I can, she adds, “Don’t thank me yet.” Her eyes glint with amusement. “It’s a lot of work, and my regulars can be a handful.”

I smile faintly, hesitating. “One more thing… Do you know anywhere nearby to stay? I’m sort of figuring things out as I go.”

Patty frowns, thoughtfully tapping her chin. “Hmm. There’s the Rosewood, a boarding house a few blocks down. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean, and the owner’s a decent guy. His kid brother is over there studying.” She motions toward Clay, whose head is buried in his revision book. “I’d wager you’d be safe there. Known them boys a long time.”

“Thanks. That helps a lot,” I say, meaning it.

As I sip my coffee, I notice Clay glance my way. He quickly returns to his book, but not before I catch the curiosity in his eyes. The sound of rain drumming against the window fills the brief silence, mingling with the low hum of the jukebox.

The city outside feels vast and overwhelming, a maze of streets and alleys I don’t know yet. But here, in the warmth of Patty’s diner, with the smell of coffee in the air and the quiet clatter of dishes in the background, it doesn’t seem quite so daunting.

Maybe—just maybe—Portland could be a place I could start over.

The sun was already climbing higher, casting long shadows across the street as I stepped out of the diner. My stomach churned uneasily with the weight on what lay ahead. The boarding house was only four blocks away, but the thought of getting lost on unfamiliar roads in bad weather held no appeal. Flagging down a taxi, I handed the driver the address Patty had scribbled on a napkin. The ride was mercifully short. The driver barely had time to ask if I was visiting before we pulled up in front ofRosewood Boarding House. I paid him quickly, mumbled a thanks, and stepped onto the sidewalk.

The house before me was beautiful, an Edwardian-style structure, with a white stone frame and dark wooden beams that looked sturdy but charming. Colorful flowerbeds flanked thewalkway leading to the porch, buzzing with life as bees darted between roses and chrysanthemums.

I climbed the short number of steps to the front door, my legs protesting after the bus ride and hours of sitting. The porch was inviting, with a swing tucked into one corner and a chess board resting mid-game on a weathered tree stump table. I could almost imagine curling up there on a cool evening, letting the quiet hum of the neighborhood settle over me. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, and the faint smell of wood polish and flowers greeted me. The boarding house was cozy and warm, with polished oak floors, and deep red walls. The atmosphere was quiet, save for the faint creek of footsteps coming down a hallway.

A tall man appeared from around the corner, his broad shoulders and confident stride drawing my attention immediately. He looked to be around my age, maybe a few years older. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his green eyes locked onto mine with an expression that was both curious and amused.

“You must be Kayla,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, the faintest hint of humor in his tone. I blinked, startled. “How did you—”

“Patty called ahead,” He interrupted, extending a hand. “I’m Dean. Welcome to theRosewood. I run the place with my younger brother, Clay, though I’m usually the one dealing with guests.”

“Hi,” I murmured, shaking his hand briefly before letting it fall to my side.

“Let’s get you checked in,” Dean said, gesturing toward the reception desk. He moved behind it, opening a thick ledger and flicking to a blank page.

“How long are you planning to stay?” He asked, glancing up at me.

“A week,” I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

“Got it,” he said, jotting something down. “Just you?”

I nodded. He finished scribbling in the ledger and grabbed a key from a set of hooks behind him. Sliding it across the counter, he smiled. “Room six. Second floor. Overlooks the garden in the back—nice view. If you need anything, just hit the pound button on your room’s phone until I pick up. You’re free to use the kitchen, too. We’re pretty casual around here.”

“Thanks.” I said, taking the key.

“Oh, and one more thing,” He added. “If my brother Clay shows up, he can be a bit…he yaps. A lot. He’s a yapper.” He shrugs, “But he’s harmless.”

I offered a weak smile, thanked him again, and headed up the stairs. The second floor was just as welcoming as the rest of the house, the hallway lined with soft rugs and adored with framed photos of the surrounding area.

Room six was at the back, overlooking the garden as Dean had mentioned. I set my bag down and wandered to the window, letting the view distract me for a moment. The yard was neat and inviting, with a small patio shaded by a gazebo and a fire pot off to one side.

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