Page 237 of Lost Then Found
“He brought it straight to Opal,” Dawn says, still chuckling. “Told her she had to fry it up special.”
From the back, Opal’s voice calls out, dry as always. “To be fair, that was a damn impressive catch for a boy his age.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, real and involuntary. “He tried to eat it with a handful of cold baked beans and a Sprite. Like that was fine dining.”
Dawn throws her head back, cackling like she’s just an old friend standing in my diner, not someone I now have to question down to her bones.
The door jingles.
That bell usually means something simple—someone hungry, someone familiar. Now, it’s a warning shot. A gut-pull.
Wendell Tate steps inside, the sun catching on the silver buckle of his belt, his Stetson casting a shadow over his eyes. His hands are shoved deepinto his pockets like he’s got nothing but time. My heart stutters—just for a second. Then I square my shoulders, plant my feet.
No.
I will not shrink for him.
I’m not some timid girl he can rattle with a smug look. I’m a mother. I’ve pushed eight pounds of screaming child into the world. I’ve worked double shifts while sleep-deprived, memorized the names of Pokémon I don’t give a flying fuck about, paid bills late, been to more baseball games than I can count and lied to my son’s face about how fine everything was. I can handle Wendell Tate.
“Morning,” he says, slipping off his hat like he’s a damn gentleman. “Good to see the Bluebell’s back open.”
His tone is light, but there’s something curled beneath it. His eyes flick past me—to Dawn, still leaning beside the counter. I catch it in my periphery—the way her shoulders go still, the way her face tightens around the edges. There’s a shift in her posture, just enough to say: she’s afraid.
Dawn. Afraid.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that before.
I step forward. “Well, a lot of folks in Summit Springs are glad to see it too.”
He hums low in his throat, gaze steady. “Seems like it got opened back up awful quick. Considering.”
I smile wider, the kind that dares him to keep pushing. “Community came together. Lucky, I guess.”
We lock eyes, and I don’t look away.
His stare sharpens, like he’s trying to peel something off me with his eyes, but I don’t flinch. Eventually, he shifts his gaze to the menu and clears his throat.
“I’ll have the breakfast skillet,” he says.
“Anything else?”
He shakes his head once. “Breakfast skillet’s fine.”
I nod, punch it in, keep my face calm even though I can feel my knuckles tighten against the counter. He slips a bill into the jar—generous, yetagain—and it makes my stomach churn, like a hand on your shoulder that lingers too long. I want to reach in, ball it up, and throw it at the back of his head as he walks away.
He doesn’t move yet, though. Just taps the counter with his palm like he owns it, then gestures past my shoulder, toward the window behind me.
“That building across the street,” he says. “Been empty a while.”
I don’t look. I don’t need to. I know which one he means—old brick facade, cracked paint along the trim, windows still covered with butcher paper from whoever tried and failed before. It’s got a second-story balcony that sags slightly, a warped awning, a side alley that floods when it rains. It’s nothing special. But it’s right across from the Bluebell.
“And?”
He smiles. It’s polite, almost kind. Which makes it worse. “Bought it last week. Figured it was time it got used.”
My stomach tightens.
“I’m bringing in a franchise,” he says. “Magnolia & Main. You’ve heard of it, right?”
