Page 103 of Haunt Me

“Okay.” He points his fork at the plate. “This is actually incredible.”

“It’s just a lemon cake.”

“It’s not just anything. Where’d you learn to bake like this?”

“We had a chef growing up.” I cut a bite off with my fork. “My parents were rarely home for dinner, so most nights it was just me in the huge kitchen with him. He used to let me help when nobody else was around to say I shouldn’t be in there getting flour on a dress that cost more than his weekly grocery budget.”

“He taught me everything, really. How to fold instead of stir, how to tell when butter’s actually softened versus melted.”

“Sounds like you had a good teacher.”

“The best.” I smile at the memory. “He was the only person who knew that I dreamt of opening a bakery someday. I pictured it as a place to hire people other places overlook.” I trace a finger around the rim of my plate, the idea more solid in my head than I’ve ever said out loud. “Folks with disabilities, people managing mental health stuff. Whoever needs a job that actually treats them like they’re capable instead of a liability.”

Knox listens without interrupting.

“Chef used to say that the kitchen was the one place where nobody cared what you looked like on paper, only whether you showed up and did the work with care. I’d love to build something like that. Someday.”

“So, why haven’t you?”

The question catches me off guard. It’s simple and direct, not at all judgemental.

“I don’t know. I always felt like it was one of those things you dream about instead of actually doing, I guess.” I shrug. “My parents would’ve called it impractical. Cute, maybe, but not a real plan.”

“Sounds like a real plan to me. You just haven’t started it yet.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Nothing worth doing usually is.” He takes another bite, thoughtful now. “You know Marge is always looking for something to switch up the menu. Half the reason this town loves that diner is her, but even she’ll admit the dessert menu has looked the same since before I was born.”

“You think she’d actually want that?”

“I think you should ask her instead of guessing what she’d say.” He points the fork at me again, this time more pointed than teasing. “You’ve spent your whole life letting other people decide what you’re allowed to want. Don’t talk yourself out of your dream because you’ve never even tried.”

Something about the way he says it, with certainty and not pity, settles somewhere deep in my chest.

“Maybe I will.”

“Don’t maybe. Just do it,” he says, quieter now. “I used to think there’d always be time to get around to things. I learned the hard way that’s not always true. People run out of time to do the things they actually wanted.”

He doesn’t explain further, and I don’t push. Instead, I file it away with everything else about him and Jon that I’ve learned not to ask too many questions about.

“Okay, I’ll talk to her when I go in for my next shift.”

We finish the cake talking about nothing in particular after that, the easy kind of nothing that only happens once two people have already said something that mattered. When he finally stands to leave, he pauses at the door the way he always seems to, like leaving costs him something small every time.

“Today was a good day,” he says. “I’m proud of you, kid.”

“Thanks. Not just today. For everything.”

He nods and heads out to his truck.

I stand on the porch after he’s gone, watching his taillights disappear down the gravel road, the pink scooter catching the last of the evening light.

Two months ago I didn’t know a single person in this town. Now there’s a scooter someone thought to have waiting for me, empty cake plates on the counter inside, and a man who feels enough like family to hug me in a parking lot over a driver’s license.

I came here with nothing but a suitcase and a plan to disappear.

Somehow, without me fully noticing it happen, this stopped feeling like disappearing and started feeling like arriving.