Page 49 of The Deal Maker

Maggie focuses on the stack of pumpkin pancakes in front of her. I thought that was only a seasonal item, especially here at the diner. Maybe they’d just been trying something different to get ready for a Christmas in summer type of thing? There’s no way we’re even close to winter or fall weather yet.

I say nothing, only looking at her with interest. I hope it’s a look that says I’m open to listen to whatever she has in mind and not like I’m in trouble for something.

“Why are you still here?” Maggie asks before sticking a bite of the pancakes into her mouth. Some of the syrup drips onto her shirt and she either doesn’t notice it or doesn’t care at this point. She sniffs. Whatever she’s dealing with, it must be pretty deep for her to be this upset.

“Because I’m your friend. I’m here any time.”

“You have to open your business soon.”

“So do you,” I say, leaning forward to close some of the distance between us.

She shakes her head. “I have a business partner who can take care of it if I’m not there.”

This doesn’t sound like something Maggie would do.“Talk to me, Maggie. Just give me this one chance to see if I can help. If not, I’ll leave you alone.”

She lets out a deep breath, as if she’s trying to hold onto the last fiber of dignity after crying. “Okay, it’s a deal.”

I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult with how fast she agreed to that.

“It’s just a tough day to remember.”

“Grandma’s death?” I ask, trying to be gentle about it. There’s a lot going on and I don’t have much information other than the reason she didn’t like me in the first place.

Shaking her head, Maggie says, “No, not that.”

I open my eyes a bit more and stare at her, waiting for her to say something.

Maggie pushes the plate away and leans back into the booth, her hair just a little unruly against the plum-colored cushion. She folds her arms over her chest and gives me a look that says she can do this all day.

Does she not understand the deal we just made? She has to share something before I can try to help.

I might not technically have the time for that, but I will give it my best effort.

The seconds tick by and I’m not sure if I’m winning this round of silent staring contest, or if I’m not even on the same playing field she is.

Two minutes go by and she finally releases the façade and slumps forward, the ends of her hair landing in the syrup. I cringe, not sure how hard that is to get out of hair. Probably difficult given her long locks.

“Um, Maggie, you’re?—”

“Why is my life in shambles?” she asks, lifting her head. It’s then that she notices the syrup dripping from her hair and tears silently fall down her face.

I’m not sure what the next move is. Do I go over to her side of the booth and try to comfort her? Do I find a large sink and help her wash out the syrup?

Is this a problem-solving moment or one when I need to just listen?

What I can’t understand is why she’s struggling this hard. What could’ve been so difficult that Maggie Dean is sitting here with syrup in her hair? She hates all things sticky and I don’t know if there’s anything stickier than real maple syrup.

I grab a napkin and dab it in the water glass in front of her. I hand her the napkin and wait, trying to make sure she knows I’m a safe space. Whatever she’s been through, I don’t need to make the trauma any deeper.

“Thanks,” she says, taking the wet paper from me and running it along the bottom of her hair.

“No problem.”

“You really don’t have to stay.”

Sighing, I say, “If that’s what you really want, I’ll go.” I slide over to the edge of the booth, but I’m surprised when her hand lands on mine, leaving a sticky spot from her fingertip.

“It’s the anniversary of the day I got engaged. Two years ago.”

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