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Miss Retro’s rarely stands empty. Generally, that’s something Miss Holloway relishes: after all, she loves her customers --- her regulars, sure, but even the ones she only sees once or twice a year --- and it’s nice to see the place staying lively. She likes seeing the booths full, likes hearing the jukebox trundle its way through song after song, likes interacting with new people across the formica of the countertop and the rising steam of fresh coffee.
She does sometimes regret the rush, though. Regrets how full it can get, how quickly she has to have orders ready, how quick the turnaround on orders has to be. Mainly just regrets not having budgeted her time and her supplies well enough to match demand, such that every lull in the traffic is consumed by a quick dash to the stockroom to grab something she’s used up during the last rush. Like now, when the fact that the place is completely empty means that she has to run to the pantry and get a new bag of flour to replace everything she’s managed to use up during breakfast . (At least it’s easy to find.)
When she rounds the corner again, there’s someone else in the diner.
Her heart jolts at the sight, harsh and sudden. She can’t hold back a short, sharp cry of surprise any more than she can stop herself from dropping the bag she’s holding. “Oh!” A nervous chuckle chases it out. “I didn’t see ya there.”
“Well, now, sorry ‘bout that, ma’am.” He smiles, with an antiquated, genteel kinda grace that makes her think he’d be tipping his hat if only he were wearing one. It’s subtler than the ostentation of the layers upon layers of denim making up his outfit. He tips over instead, picking up the bag and passing it back. “Didn’t mean to startle ya.”
She chuckles again, feeling the flour shift beneath her hands. Some leaks out from an unknown seam in the package: a puff of white powder that spreads across her bright blue uniform, her apron, her hands, and she sets the bag down on the counter before the damage can worsen. “Oh, no, no, don’t worry about it! Didn’t hear the bell is all.” She slips behind the counter and smiles as she wipes the dust from her hands with the dish towel from her shoulder. “Sorry for the wait; what can I getcha?”
His smile is quiet-borne in a way she can’t quite explain, like it’s stealing across his face without his knowledge. Like it’s wearing him as much as he’s wearing it. (She knows, intellectually, that it’s pure coincidence that the song on the jukebox ends with that expression and yet she fights the instinctive certainty that they’re connected anyway. She’s glad when the next song starts playing.) “Whaddya recommend?”
She shrugs. “Well, we happen to be famous for our pie, though I’d be a poor saleswoman if I didn’t mention that there’s not a miss on the menu.” She bustles: moves the bag of flour from one counter to another, wipes off the powder it left behind, returns the towel to her shoulder. “And I’ve heard the coffee’s to die for.”
His grin ticks up even more. “Well, I can’t pass that up, now can I? Cuppa black coffee sounds right up my alley.” He’s too tall for her bar stools --- it’s odd; she’s never seen anyone be too tall for them --- but he coils atop one anyway, heels resting against the plate at the bottom. “And is that apple pie I spy?”
She nods. “Fresh from the oven.”
“Ain’t that lucky? Just so happens to be my favourite. Slice o’ that.” A pause, then, “Thanks.”
“Comin’ right up.” She slides over a mug, the plate right after, and she’s glad it’s an easy order because it gives her the time to open the bag of flour and move it to a more long-term container after. “Haven’t seen you around before. This your first time in Hatchetfield?”
A shake of his head. “Oh, no, I ain’t new in town. Fact o’ the matter is, I’ve been meanin’ to stop by for…” A laugh. “Too long.” He pauses for a moment, fork dangling from long fingers as he looks her way and contemplates something. “I’ve heard a whole helluva lot ‘bout this place. ‘S practically famous.”
She wonders what he’d been thinking about, then buries the curiosity under a self-indulgent surge of pride at the comment. “That’s mighty kind of you to say.”
He reaches out a hand. “Name’s Wiley.”
She drops the dish towel on the counter and reaches out to shake it, but the bell jangles before she can. When she looks up, she knows the newcomer. When she looks up, she fails to fight a smile. “Hiya, Duke.”
He’s not looking at her.
It takes her a moment to notice, to process why the situation feels wrong, but, once she notices it, she can’t un-notice it. She’s seen him upset before --- rarely sees him without the melancholy that seems to cling to him --- but she’s never seen him like this. Never seen his eyebrows drawn together like this. Never seen his jaw clenched quite so tightly. He still greets her --- still says his usual “Heya, darlin’.” that usually cheers her up like nothing else --- but it’s off, somehow, distracted in more ways than one, and her smile falters because that unnerves her more than it probably should. “How’s it goin’?”
“Oh, it’s goin’ just fine, Duke.” She even almost means it. “Coffee?”
He nods. “Sure, thanks.”
The diner is silent for a moment, save for the sounds of The Police drifting out of the jukebox, and she feels like something has… shifted, somehow. Changed. Like the atmosphere in the diner is thick with a tension she can’t identify, can’t explain, and yet can sense just the same. (She wonders if changing the song would help --- she’s fond of it, sure, but there’s something creepy lurking beneath its surface, creeping into promises of love and devotion for every breath you take, and a superstitious part of her considers switching to something slightly more upbeat, just in case --- but she stays where she is instead.) The tension stays, too.
Duke looks at Wiley. Wiley looks at Duke. She stands behind the counter and becomes abundantly aware that she’s missing something.
“What are you doing here?” She’s never heard Duke angry before. Now she has. His voice is taut, a string stretched to its limits and plucked, vibrating in time to the tension in his spine, the white of his knuckles, the grit of his teeth.
She’s missing something.
Wiley, though, isn’t. He’s shifted on the stool, uncoiled into a lopsided sprawl that shouldn’t be possible. He’s grinning through it all and there’s… there’s something about it. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. Something oddly menacing. Something cold and calculating and toothy and it sends a shiver down her spine but she can’t look away either. “Hiya, Duke! Fancy runnin’ into you here.”
“What are you doing here?”
Wiley’s fingers tap against the counter. Had they always been that thin? That skeletal? That sharp? She couldn’t-- Why couldn’t she-- “Oh, you know how it is. Just wanted a bite to eat.” Those nails rat-tat-tat-tat-tat down. The diner is warm; she shivers anyway. “Heard great things about this place.” Their smile is a knife’s edge pressed against soft flesh, a thing born from darkness and nightmares, the grin of a shark before it bites you. “Thought I’d stop by.”
“You have no business here.”
They laugh. She can’t hear the jukebox anymore, can’t hear anything but that metal-ratchet sound, can’t stop listening to a conversation she doesn’t understand. “Oh, friend-o, you are my business. Have been ‘fore you even made that deal o’ yours.” They’re still holding the fork she’d given them, a knife she hadn’t noticed them draw. The metal looks sinister in their hand. Even more so when, paradoxically, the only move they make is against their pie. “Even more since, but I suspect ya knew that already.”
There’s anger in Duke’s eyes, but there’s a sudden panic too. It leaves him wide-eyed, looking back and forth between her and the customer she can’t explain. “If you say another word--”
“Oh, that’s right! Don’t wanna say the wrong thing, now, do we? Sure’d be a shame if someone were ta mention somethin’ too personal, now, wouldn’t it?” Wiley’s gleeful smirk clashes with the look in Duke’s eyes, with her own inexplicable paralysis. With the lyrics spilling out of the juke. Every move you make, every vow you break-- “After all, what if someone were to say--”
She blinks.
“Stop!” Duke’s moved closer --- must’ve done so in the second she’d had her eyes closed, though she’s not sure how he’s crossed half the diner in a single blink --- and she fights the urge to suggest he back away from the knife out of fear that saying anything will set alight the vulnerable powder keg that is their conversation. “Just… stop.”
“Tsk tsk.” The sound isn’t as scolding as she expects so much as it is playful, a cat batting around a mouse. A taunt. “If ya wanted me gone, ya shouldn’ta made that deal.”
Duke looks her way again. Looks away without explaining the comment. Makes the equally confusing rejoinder: “I made the deal because I wanted you gone.”
The room turns cold. The tension turns angry, displeased --- or, rather, angrier, more displeased --- cold in a way that overrides even the summer humidity. “Well, now, that’s real fucking rude, ain’t it?” The fork clatters loudly against the plate. The knife flips around nimble, skeletal, claw-like fingers. “I’d watch my tongue if I were you or someone might cut it the fuck out. That’d be a real fucking shame.”
Miss Holloway might not know exactly what’s going on --- might be filled with the bone-deep certainty that she should not intervene --- but she can’t stay quiet at that, no matter how wise it would be. “If you continue to threaten my customers, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
She almost feels bad for the way the panic in Duke’s eyes gets worse, but she can’t regret it either. “Don’t--”
“Oh-ho-ho, the kitty’s got claws!” Their glee is only slightly less discomfiting than their anger had been. “Don’t you worry that pretty head o’ yours; I ain’t gonna hurt ol’ Dukey-boy over here. Not like this, anyway. Some other way…” Wiley’s still not looking at her, their eyes still fixed on Duke, and she doesn’t like the expression on their face. The threat writing itself into their posture, their words, their tone, their smirk. “Well, now, that’s fair game, ain’t it?”
The knife flips again, blade somehow sharper than their grin.
“You touch her, Wiley, and I swear--”
“What? What are you gonna do, buddy boy, that you ain’t been tryin’ ta do since I had a chat with that father o’ yours, huh?” A cackle that splits the air: rust on a hinge, rocks in a tumbler. “You ain’t gonna pull out that little black book o’ yours long as I’ve got enough collateral damage to still that too-fucking-good heart. Anyway--” The knife flickers her way and she blinks as the light plays across her face, too-bright and too-unexpected. “Wouldn’t wanna reset too much, now would we, Douglas?”
Douglas. It’s not the time for smiling, but she does anyway because, well, she knows his name now. She’s never heard his first name before, but she’s always been curious, so she focuses on it, tries to store it in her memory. She won’t let herself forget because she needs to remember--
“You’ve made your point.” Duke hasn’t moved but his feet --- familiar shoes, caked in mud like they always seemed to be, even if she wasn’t sure why --- shift beneath him, scuffing against the floor. His hands lift, a gesture of openness, or maybe of surrender, and she’s distracted from her thoughts by the urge to say something… but then she bites it back, swallows it down. She’s not sure she’ll do anything but make the situation worse, so she stays quiet and tries to track down her train of thought instead.
She’d-- She’d been trying to remember something, right?
Huh. She must have forgotten.
“Oh, I ain’t made nothin’ yet.” Another flip of the knife. “There’s so much worse I c’n do, Douglas.”
Despite herself, she fights a grin. She’s never heard his first name before, and she’s glad to know it now. Douglas, she thinks to herself. Stores it in her memory, where she stores all the stuff she never wants to forget. Repeats it to herself so it won’t slip awa--
“Leave her alone.”
Miss Holloway blinks. Leave her alone? They haven’t done anything towards her --- haven’t really even done anything more generally --- other than sit and talk. They’re a distraction, sure, from… whatever she’d been thinking about… but that was all. The worst thing they’ve done is prevent her from remembering something and she spares a moment to regret the loss of it but it probably wasn’t important anyway or she wouldn’t have forgotten it in the first place.
They shrug. “She’s fine. And if you want her to stay that way, you’ll watch yourself.” They slide off the stool, uncoil impossible limbs from the stool they’ve been sitting on, swallow the last bite of pie. “Thanks for the pie, darlin’.” Her skin crawls. “You weren’t kiddin’ about the joe, either. Really is to die for. Trust me, I’d know!” Another cackle as they toast her with the mug, downing the contents. “See ya ‘round, Duke. And don’t forget--”
Did the jukebox skip? It must have. She’d swear it had been playing The Police a second ago, not Journey. Odd. She’ll have to have it checked out.
She turns back from the stove, looks back towards the counter. “I’m sorry, what had you been say--” Except Wiley’s gone, plate and mug empty, and there’s a very different figure standing in front of her. “Oh!” Laughs, hand pressed to her chest tightly enough to realise that her heart’s pounding even though she’s not sure why. Must be the surprise, that’s all. What other reason could there be? “Hiya, Duke! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you come in! I thought there was someone else--” There’s not. The diner is empty aside from the two of them. She must be losing her mind. “Anyway, what can I get ya?”
“Coffee.” Duke’s voice is quieter than usual, and she feels a low thrum of concern. “Thanks, darlin’.”
She turns to the maker, reaches for a new cup-- except there’s already one made, still steaming, just the same as she always made his cups. She blinks at it, tries to sort through the confusion muddling her brain because she can’t for the life of her remember making it, but she picks it up and hands it to him anyway. “Here ya go.”
“Thank you kindly,” he says, settling on her stool.
“Any time. Hope it’s--” She reaches for the dish towel she just set down, only to pause as her fingers scrape against the empty counter-top. It takes her a second to wrap her mind around the fact that it’s not there, even longer to realise that it’s been tossed over her shoulder instead. Her words have tripped to silence in the meantime, stumbling over her surprise, and she gives up on trying to make it seem natural. “Sorry, Duke. Today’s just… a weird day. You know?”
He nods. “I do,” he says, sipping at the mug of coffee. His voice is quieter than usual. “Sorry to hear it.”
She shrugs. “Least it’s a pretty one.” It is, even if it’s hotter than hell. The sun’s shining through her windows with a cheery yellow brightness, and it’s almost enough to lift her mood out of the hazy slowness of her brain. Almost. “Nice day for a picnic. Bet the fireworks’ll be real nice tonight.”
“Yeah.” Duke nods, smiles. It’s not one of his genuine smiles, but it’s better than it was and she’ll take it. “That’s true.”
“You goin’ to the Festival?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Hadn’t decided yet. I suppose it depends on whether I’ve got work tonight.”
“Oh, c’mon, Duke! You can take one night off.” She hadn’t really intended to say that, and yet, now that it’s said, she feels the need to double-down. To commit. “Would you want to go? With me, I mean? I hear the paddle-boats are nice. Great view of the fireworks. Dinner’s on me; I happen to know the owner of a damn good diner in town…”
He smiles, but, for a moment, she wonders if he’ll say no anyway. She almost pulls back, almost starts backtracking… and then he nods. The smile strengthens --- not quite absent of melancholy and yet the closest she’s ever seen --- and he nods. “Okay.”
She doesn’t fight her smile. “Okay.”
She’s never watched the fireworks with anyone before. It’ll be nice to watch them with Duke.