I lather up, the scent of the generic motel soap filling my nostrils. It’s a far cry from my usual coconut-infused body wash, but it’ll do. As I rinse off, my stomach lets out another insistent rumble. Time to stop daydreaming and focus on the mission at hand: food.
Toweling off, I rummage through my suitcase for something presentable. Jeans and a cozy sweater will have to suffice. I’m in no mood to dress up, and besides, who am I trying to impress in this quaint little town?
A quick blow-dry and a swipe of lip gloss later, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I grab my purse and room key, steeling myself for the chilly Maine evening. As I step out into the parking lot, the crisp spring air nips at my cheeks, a stark contrast to the stuffy motel room.
Now, to find a decent meal in this unfamiliar place. I pull out my phone, hoping for a little culinary guidance. “Come on, Siri,” I mutter, “don’t let me down. I need some comfort food, asap.”
With a few voice commands, a list of nearby restaurants pops up. I scroll through the options, my mouth watering at the thought of a warm, hearty dish. Seafood, maybe? When in Maine, right? I settle on a diner that boasts the best clam chowder in town, according to the glowing reviews.
As I navigate the quiet streets of Biddeford, my mind wanders back to the chaos waiting for me back in Chicago. The PR crisis, the demanding clients, the endless emails. But for now, at this moment, my only concern is filling my grumblingstomach and maybe, just maybe, finding a glimmer of peace in this unexpected detour.
But first things first—bring on the seafood.
The bell above the door jingles as I step into Julie’s Diner, a wave of warmth and the aroma of sizzling bacon enveloping me. It’s a cozy little spot, all checkered floors and vinyl booths, the kind of place that feels like home even if you’ve never been before.
I slide into a booth, the red cushion squeaking beneath me. Before I can even reach for a menu, a waitress with a smile brighter than the neon sign outside appears at my table.
“Well, hello there, sugar!” she chirps, her blonde ponytail bobbing with enthusiasm. “What can I get started for you tonight?”
I blink, taken aback by her energy. It’s nearly nine o’clock. How can anyone be this chipper at this time of night?
“Oh, um, I read your clam chowder is the best in town,” I manage, mustering a tired smile.
“You betcha! One bowl of our famous chowder, coming right up!” She winks, jotting down my order. “Anything else, hon?”
I shake my head, and with a nod, she whirls away, leaving me to take in my surroundings. It’s then that I spot a familiar face five tables across.
It’s him. The guy from the motel room. Dan. He’s sitting in a booth, sharing what looks like an enormous sundae with a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old. She’s giggling as he dabs a dollop of whipped cream on her nose, and the affection between them is palpable.
I watch as they interact, the easy banter, the inside jokes. It’s clear they have a special bond, the kind that comes from years of love and trust. A father and daughter, I surmise, noting the way he looks at her like she’s the center of his universe.
It’s undeniably sweet and I can see the appeal—the laughter, the love, the sense of belonging. But having kids is the death knell of careers. At least for women. And I have so much more I still need to achieve.
As I sit there, lost in thought, the waitress returns with a steaming bowl of chowder. “Here you go, darlin’,” she says, setting it down with a flourish. “Careful, it’s hot.”
I nod my thanks, inhaling the rich, comforting aroma. It smells like home, not my home, but it oozes warmth and safety, and all the things I didn’t realize I was craving.
As I take my first spoonful, savoring the creamy, briny flavor, I can’t help but steal another glance at Dan and his daughter. They’re lost in their own little world, oblivious to the rest of the diner, to the rest of the world.
And for a fleeting moment, I wonder what it would be like to be a part of something like that. To have someone look at me the way Dan looks at his daughter, like I’m the most important person in the room.
I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. I don’t have time for silly daydreams or small-town sentimentality.
I have a job to do, a life to get back to. This is just a temporary detour, a blip on the radar. Nothing more.
Or so I tell myself, as I focus on my chowder, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, there’s something more to life than market research and late-night conference calls.
Dan catches my eye, and I quickly look away, suddenly fascinated by the patterns in my chowder. But it’s too late. He’s already making his way over, his daughter trailing behind him.
“Hey, I thought it was you,” he says, his voice warm and friendly. “I just wanted to apologize again for earlier. I really didn’t mean to startle you like that.”
I wave him off, forcing a smile. “It’s fine, really. No harm done.”
But Dan’s daughter isn’t so easily dismissed. She peers at me with those big, curious eyes, her head tilted to the side.
“You look really pretty,” she says, her voice so earnest it catches me off guard. “But you also look really sad. Are you okay?”
I blink, taken aback by her perceptiveness. How can this little girl see right through me, when I’ve spent years perfecting my poker face?