Three weeks passed.
The first two weeks had been a brutal adjustment. Crysta's hands developed callouses from carrying hot plates, but her mind had struggled to keep up with the chaotic pace. She had dropped silverware, mixed up table numbers, and frozen when too many voices demanded her attention at once. But she refused to quit. She learned the rhythm of the diner through sheer, punishing repetition. She arrived at 5:00 AM to start the coffee and sweep the floors. She stayed until 4:00 PM to mop the kitchen.
She spoke only when necessary. She kept her head down.
But Leo's suspicion hung in the air like thick smoke.
It happened on a Tuesday afternoon. Crysta was wiping down Booth 4.
"Where is it?" Leo's voice barked from the front counter.
Crysta turned. Leo was staring into the open cash register. His jaw was clenched tight.
"Where is what?" Margo asked, coming out of the kitchen.
"Twenty dollars," Leo said. He slammed the register drawer shut. The sound made Crysta flinch. He turned his head and locked eyes with Crysta. "The drawer is short twenty dollars."
The diner went dead silent. The two customers at the counter stopped chewing.
Crysta's blood turned to ice. Her stomach dropped into her shoes. She immediately reached for her left wrist, her thumb digging into the skin.
"Leo," Margo warned, wiping her hands on her apron.
"No, Mom," Leo said, stepping out from behind the counter. He walked toward Crysta. His arms were crossed over his chest. "I counted it this morning. It was perfect. She is the only one who has been working the register for the last hour."
"I didn't take it," Crysta said. Her voice was quiet, but her heart was beating so hard it hurt her ribs.
"Empty your pockets," Leo demanded.
Crysta's vision tunneled. The humiliation burned the back of her neck. She was back in the prison yard, being ordered to strip.
She reached into her black jeans. She pulled out her order pad, a pen, and three dollars in tips. She placed them on the table.
"Check her apron," Leo said.
Before Margo could stop him, the bell above the door chimed.
A man in a mechanic's uniform walked in. He held a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "Hey, Leo. You gave me a ten instead of a twenty for my change this morning. I just noticed."
Leo froze. The color drained from his face. He looked at the mechanic, then down at the twenty-dollar bill.
He slowly turned his head to look at Crysta.
Crysta didn't wait for his apology. She picked up her order pad, turned her back to him, and walked into the kitchen. She grabbed a stack of dirty plates and shoved them into the industrial dishwasher. Her hands were shaking with rage and relief.
She survived the day.
The next morning, Crysta focused entirely on the customers. She forced her brain to catalog their faces and their habits. It was not perfect yet, but she was trying.
At 7:00 AM, the door opened. A tall man with broad shoulders and a graying mustache walked in.
Crysta grabbed a heavy ceramic mug, filled it with black coffee, and placed it on the counter at his usual spot. She set a blueberry muffin on a small plate next to it.
"Morning, Captain Mason," Crysta said.
Ridge Mason, the Cedarwood Fire Captain, looked at the coffee, then at Crysta. He smiled. "You are finally getting the hang of it, kid."
At 8:30 AM, Mrs. Gable, the retired school teacher, sat in Booth 2. Crysta brought her a glass of iced tea, though she had to run back to the kitchen when she realized she forgot the woman's two extra slices of lemon. It was a process, but she was adapting.
At noon, a businessman in a rush paid for his sandwich and sprinted out the door.
Crysta went to clear his table. Underneath the chair, a thick leather wallet lay on the floor.
She picked it up. It was heavy. She could see the edge of a stack of hundred-dollar bills inside.
Leo was watching her from the grill. His spatula paused in mid-air.
Crysta didn't hesitate. She grabbed the wallet, ran to the front door, and pushed it open. She sprinted down the sidewalk.
"Sir!" she yelled.
The businessman was unlocking his car. He turned.
Crysta handed him the wallet, gasping for breath. "You dropped this."
The man checked his pocket, his eyes widening. He opened the wallet, saw the cash was untouched, and let out a massive breath. "Thank you. God, thank you." He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. "Here."
"No," Crysta said, stepping back. "I don't want your money."
She turned and walked back to the diner.
When she walked through the door, Leo was standing by the register. He looked at her. He didn't cross his arms. His jaw was relaxed.
That night, after the diner closed, Crysta was taking the heavy trash bags out to the alley.
Leo was leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette.
Crysta threw the bags into the dumpster. She turned to go back inside.
"What did you do?" Leo asked.
Crysta stopped. She looked at him.
"Before," Leo clarified, taking a drag of his cigarette. "What did you do to end up in that place?"
Crysta felt a familiar tightness in her chest. She looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette.
"I trusted the wrong people," Crysta said flatly. "And I paid for it."
She didn't offer details. She didn't want his pity.
Leo stared at her face for a long time. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot.
"Tomorrow morning," Leo said, his voice gruff. "I am making the marinara sauce. It takes two people to lift the tomato pots. Be downstairs at six."
It was an invitation. It was an olive branch.
Crysta nodded. "I will be there."
