The next morning, sunlight pushed through the lace curtains with no regard for Sabrina’s lack of sleep. She lay on top of the covers, still dressed in yesterday’s T-shirt, feet throbbing from the festival rush. Exhaustion sat in every muscle, but beneath it lived something she had almost forgotten. Want. Not for Chad. Not for escape. For a kitchen, a menu, and the right to find out how good she could become. The farmhouse was quiet except for the refrigerator’s hum and the complaint of old beams warming in the sun. As Sabrina passed the bedroom Daphne shared with Alan, low voices slipped through the door they had not quite closed. “I took two tests,” Daphne whispered. “They were both positive.” “Then we call the doctor,” Alan said. “Keep your voice down. Chad doesn’t know. Nobody does except you.” Sabrina stopped before the floorboard beneath her could answer for her. On the hall table sat a sleeve of saltines, a bottle of ginger ale, and a pharmacy bag with prenatal vitamins visible through the opening. She backed away without knocking. Whatever else had broken between them, the secret belonged to Daphne. Sabrina would not be the one to take it from her.
An hour later, the diner smelled of bleach and old coffee when Sabrina unlocked it. Nadine would not arrive for another twenty minutes, but Sabrina moved through the quiet as if the place had asked something of her. She changed the filters, restocked the sugar packets, and wrote the day’s special on the chalkboard in letters large enough to read from the door. Mindy swept in carrying a bakery bag and a flamingo-print notebook. “These scones cost six dollars each,” she announced. “Decide whether this is charity or bribery.” “Extortion.” “That’s my girl.” Sabrina opened the notebook. Gold letters across the cover read GET IT, GIRL with an optimism bordering on aggression. “What am I supposed to do with this?” “Write down what you want before you talk yourself out of it.” By the time the lunch rush slowed, the first page held four ideas: Biscuit bar with rotating local honey. Seasonal blue-plate specials. Late-night coffee and comfort menu. The Second Helping? “That’s cute.” Sabrina looked up. Maggie stood at the counter holding a plastic container. “Jesus. Warn a person.” “You were thinking loudly.” Maggie opened the container. “Cornbread. My aunt’s recipe.” Sabrina broke off a corner, tasted it, and immediately resented how good it was. “Trade?” Maggie asked. “Always.” Maggie nodded toward the notebook. “You ever think about doing more than this?” “More how?” “Running a kitchen. Owning one. Making the rules instead of waiting for somebody to hand you permission.” Sabrina looked toward Nadine, who was arguing with the soda machine. “That world doesn’t usually make room for people like me.” “Then take up space.” Before leaving, Maggie offered Sabrina a prep shift at the Griddle House. One lunch rush. No promises. Sabrina said yes before fear could answer for her.
Chad was home when she returned, sprawled across the couch in yesterday’s jeans while a muted game show flashed across the television. The air smelled of sawdust, stale cologne, and the beer open beside his boot. “Truck started?” he asked. “Eventually.” “I told you the battery’s shot.” “And I’m telling you Maggie Duval offered me a shift tomorrow.” That got his attention. “At the Griddle House?” “Prep for lunch.” He sat forward. “Brie, don’t get carried away.” The warning in his voice cooled every good thing the day had given her. “What does that mean?” “It means one busy festival doesn’t make you a chef. You make eggs and pour coffee.” Sabrina stared at him. He had found the one place still tender and pressed his thumb directly into it. “Even toast takes timing,” she said. She went upstairs before he could decide whether to apologize. Near three in the morning, retching woke Sabrina. A thin bar of light showed beneath Daphne and Alan’s door. Alan had already left for an early shift, and Sabrina found Daphne curled beside the bathroom cabinet, trembling. “Go ahead,” Daphne whispered. “Say it.” Sabrina ran a cloth beneath cold water. “I heard you and Alan this morning.” Daphne closed her eyes. “Then you know.” “I know enough.” “Chad can’t know yet.” “It’s yours to tell,” Sabrina said. “I won’t take that from you.” She brewed peppermint tea and stayed on the floor until Daphne could drink without gagging. When the worst passed, Daphne caught her wrist. “Don’t go yet.” Sabrina stayed. It was not forgiveness, but it was family—the kind built from history, survival, and the choice to remain when leaving would have been easier.