There’s a tiny motel just off the exit. It looks questionable at best. The blinking Vacancysign is missing a few letters and the outside of the building has seen better days. The entire parking lot is dark, although the lights are on in the motel. While I consider myself to be a go-getter, I’m not an idiot.
The last place I want to stay is a murder motel.
Honeypot is actually a few miles down the road, so I decide to see if I can find a place in town to stay. It’s past supper time and my body has seemingly forgotten I just had that burger a couple of hours ago. I’m starving. I drive quickly down the road, following the signs for Honeypot, but I’m careful to obey the exact speed limit. There’s no need for repeat mistakes.
Not tonight.
When I finally see the lights at the edge of town, they’re overshadowed by the neon glow of a diner. Finally: some real food. I park my car and hop out, stretching my arms over my head as I look around.
From the parking lot, I can spot another tiny motel, a church, and a supermarket. There are quite a few trees and the whole town has this 50s-style feel to it. Who knows what else is in this tiny place? If my interview goes poorly tomorrow, I’ll have plenty of time to explore. Maybe there will be a bookstore or library I can hang out in.
Ugh. The interview.
I shouldn’t be as nervous as I am. My work history is pretty strong and all of my references are excellent. My resume is glowing and if there’s one question this guy is going to ask me, it’s probably why I bothered applying for a job in the country if my degree is in English Literature.
My stomach growls, drawing me back to the present, and I turn back to the diner. The parking lot is fairly full, but I’m hoping there will be a seat left. The door jingles when I push it open and I hear laughter and joking and voices. A jukebox is playing in the corner.
When I step inside, the diner goes completely silent. Aside from the music, everyone stops talking and just looks at me. My mouth goes dry. Did I interrupt a private event? That would be just my luck, wouldn’t it? First a ticket: now crashing a party. What was I going to do next? Steal candy from a baby?
My eyes roam the room as I lick my lips, wondering what to say or do. There must be 20 different people staring at me. No one looks mean or angry. They just seem curious, like they weren’t expecting an out-of-towner.
Like they weren’t expecting me.
Suddenly a friendly looking young woman appears from the back and waves her hand at the diners.
“Carry on, folks,” she says. “Let’s not be rude.” As if nothing had happened, the room grows loud once more and everyone turns back to what they were doing. How did she do that? This woman is pure magic: that much is for certain.
“Um, hi,” I say, turning to her, and she smiles.
“Can I help you, honey? You want something to eat, or do you just need directions?”
“Food would be good,” I manage to say, and she motions for me to take a seat at the counter. I slip onto the metal barstool. It’s got a red vinyl cushion on the top that’s seen better days, but I love the vibe of the restaurant. It’s completely classic.
The woman appears on the other side of the counter with a glass of water and a menu.
“Take your time deciding,” she says. “Just let me know when you’re ready.” Her ponytail bounces as she walks away and I’m immediately put at ease. Something about this woman feels comfortable and homey. She reminds me of a big sister or a really fun babysitter. If she were older, she’d remind me of a super-cool aunt, but she can’t be more than a few years older than me.
She grabs a coffee pot and begins making her way throughout the diner, refilling mugs and chatting with customers. How long has she worked here? She seems to know her way around the place. When the woman moves, she glides. She can’t be more than 30, I imagine. She’s cute and curvy and seems really friendly.
Maybe Honeypot won’t be so bad after all.
A few minutes later, I’m ready to order, and when she catches my eye from across the room, I nod to let her know I’m all set.
“What’ll it be, darling?” She says, and I’m reminded of every movie I’ve ever seen where the sweet diner waitress is secretly a single mother who works really hard and manages to fall in love. I like this girl already. No matter what her story is or what secrets she might be hiding, I hope she gets her happy ending.
“Is it too late for waffles?” I ask, but she just chuckles.
“It’s never too late for waffles, hon.” She takes my menu and laughs again, pointing at a nearby table where four bearded men are eating stacks of waffles. They look over at us, but I quickly turn away, blushing.
“It’ll be just a few minutes,” she says kindly, and disappears into the back.
I try not to fidget as I wait, but I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m in a strange place by myself. Not for the first time, I’m wondering if this was a bad idea. It wasn’t, I tell myself. It isn’t. I have to do this for myself.
I have to prove I’m better than my past.
Casually glancing around, I take in the records hanging on the wall and the black-and-white pictures. Some of them are kind of weird. Most of them look like a younger version of Honeypot. Maybe that’s what the town looked like long ago. Everyone looks happy and swank. Seriously. These people dress nicely.
There’s a painting on one wall that stands out simply because it’s a painting. It features a man with wings and a young woman with long brown hair. She’s looking up at the man and smiling like he’s her entire world.