Page 11 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

“Nope.” Dad’s already marching from my room. I watch, amused, as Mom’s eyes follow. The man looks ridiculous, but she looks hopelessly in love with him. It makes me smile.

I want that someday. I want to look at a man like Mom looks at Dad.

I want to look at Holt like that.

Dad hollers, “The fish wait for no one!”

I holler back, “They aren’t jumping ponds.”

“Wilder things have happened.”

Wilder. Like Holt Wilder. I wonder what Holt’s doing this morning.

Argh. I’m obsessed.

Mom’s eyes drift back to me. “Chop, chop, baby girl. Your father has been dying to try Cherry’s cinnamon buns. He’s been three times and they’ve been sold out every time.”

“Tell him to fix his pants, and I’ll hurry,” I barter.

She makes a point of considering, then says, “Deal.”

Cherry’s is sold out of cinnamon buns, and I did hurry.

“It’s eight in the morning. Who has been here to buy you out already?” Dad demands, exasperated. At least his pants aren’t up to there, anymore.

“Herman Wilder was here first thing.” Cherry, the diner’s namesake, is a wildcard of a woman with a sharply pointed nose, and big cartoon eyes. Her thick hair is cut in a bob she’s died a bright cherry red to match the paint on her lips and polish on her nails. The red and black polka-dot nametag pinned to the matching, nineteen-fifties-in-style, apron, reads, ‘Cherry’ in thick, bright red bubbly retro font. It matches the front sign that’s been tacked to the bright blue painted wood siding out front.

Cherry’s Diner is kind of a mess, but I figure that’s where it gets its charm.

If I didn’t want to be like Mom when I grew up, I think I’d want to be like her. There’s something about her that just feels carefree and right. She’s her own person, through-and-through, and that’s attractive.

Dad’s foot slides from a white checker square tile to a black. His hip pops to one side, and he plants a big hand on it. “What time is first thing?”

“Six AM,” Cherry says, an amused smile slanting red lips. “He’s got his guys working overtime this weekend to finish up a big reno for Mrs. Crawley up on Mount-U Road.

The mention of Mount-U Road has a flush tinting my skin that Mom doesn’t miss. I ignore a raised brow, giving my undivided attention to the treat shelf advertising all the other goodies Cherry’s has to offer that aren’t her famous sticky cinnamon buns.

Dad sighs, resigned. “Well, what do you recommend to replace the rolls, Cherry?” Cherry leans into the register, like she’s going to tell Dad a secret worth the weight of gold in sugar. “The cinnamon buns are good. Stellar, even, but…”

Dad’s leaning in too, now, and I swear, he’s holding his breath as he holds out for whatever tidbit of sugary info, she’s about to deal him.

Mom snorts, and Cherry’s eyes flick up to her. She winks, and yep—I want to be Cherry when I grow up.

“But what?” Dad has missed the whole exchange. He’s chasing a sugar high Cherry is dangling on a string he can’t quite catch.

“But my personal fav are these little guys right here.” Cherry taps the display with her glossy red nail. “These babies are the hidden gem of Rubble Ridge. Everyone who knows a good treat knows these are the thing to scoop up.”

My eyes fall to the treat as Cherry continues, “A fresh baked croissant smothered in my signature glaze—which is the best glaze ever, by the way—drizzled in warm chocolate icing. It’s an ooey-gooey, melt-in-your-mouth sweet treat that is sure to please.”

She missed a career in car sales.

Dad is sold. Hands down, salivating over the ooey-gooey description of a fresh-baked sugar bomb. “I’ll take six of those.” He pauses, and with a tap of one finger to his chin, considers. “You know what, make it nine.”

Cherry grins like the black cat that got the cream. “I’ll throw in an extra, because I think you’re going to be one of my best customers.”

Mom cackles. Cherry shoots her another wink.

Yeah, I want to be Cherry. She’s awesome.