You remind me of someone I used to know. Vivien smiled just slightly. She didn't ask who. Some questions you let people answer on their own time, if they want to answer them at all. Over the following week, Vivien and Dolores fell into an easy rhythm.
Dolores called out orders. Vivien delivered them. In the slow hours, Dolores told stories about the town, about the diner's history, about her late husband, a man named Walt. He was a police officer, Dolores said one slow Thursday afternoon, wiping down the counter. 28 years on the force here in Fairbridge.
Best man I ever knew. He sounds like he was very respected, Vivien said. Oh, he was. Everybody in this town owed that man a favor or two. Dolores smiled, her eyes going a little distant.
He used to say the same thing about people that I say about pie crust. What's that? You can't judge it until you've seen what's underneath the top layer. Vivien thought about that for a long moment. She thought about the little photo on her desk.
About 10 years of training, nobody at Maplewood had ever seen. That's a good way to think about people, she said quietly. It's the only way, Dolores said. Most folks never bother to look underneath. That's their loss, not the other person's.
Vivien found herself thinking about that line more than she expected to, turning it over the way she used to turn over her grandmother's sayings, testing them against the world to see if they held. So far, most of them had. It was the following Friday when Preston Colby and his friends first walked into the Wagon Wheel, three of them. Preston in the middle, wearing his gray hoodie again, flanked by two friends Vivien recognized from around campus. Wesley, tall and quiet, mostly just laughed at whatever Preston said.
Grady, shorter and louder, always trying a little too hard to keep up. They took a booth by the window and immediately started making noise, loud jokes, loud laughter, the kind of energy that fills a room whether the room wants it or not. Dolores approached their table with her usual warmth. Evening guys, what can I get you? Preston barely looked up from his phone.
Burger, fries. And can you actually get it here before next week this time? Dolores's smile didn't waver. But something behind her eyes tightened just slightly. We'll do our best, sweetheart.
Yeah, that's what you said last time, Preston muttered loud enough for the whole booth to hear. Wesley and Grady laughed. Vivien, three tables away, heard every word. She kept working, refilled a coffee cup, cleared an empty plate, her face calm, but she was watching. 15 minutes later, Dolores brought their food out.
Her hands, usually so steady, wobbled slightly under the weight of the tray. It had been a long shift. As she set Preston's plate down, her hands slipped just enough to knock his soda glass. A small splash landed on the edge of the table. Nowhere near him.
Nowhere near his phone. Preston jerked back like he'd been scolded. "Are you serious right now?" "I'm so sorry, Han. Let me grab a towel," Dolores said quickly. "This is why they should get younger staff in here," Preston said, not quietly at all.
"This isn't a nursing home." Grady laughed loudly. Wesley smirked into his drink. A few other customers glanced over, then quickly looked away. Nobody said anything. That was the part that stayed with Vivien the longest.
Not the words themselves, but the silence around them. Dolores wiped the table without a word, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on the wet spot in front of her. Like it was the only thing in the room. Vivien sat down the tray she was carrying and walked over. I've got this table, she told Dolores quietly.
Go take your break. Dolores looked at her for a moment. Something passed between them, something unspoken. You sure, honey? I'm sure.
Dolores nodded and stepped back toward the kitchen. Vivien turned to the booth. Three young men looked up at her. Preston still wearing a smirk from his last joke. Can I get you anything else?
Vivien asked. Her voice was calm, almost gentle. "Yeah," Preston said, looking her up and down. "A new waitress who isn't 100 years old." Wesley laughed. Grady laughed harder.
Vivien didn't laugh. She looked at Preston for exactly 1 second longer than was comfortable. Not angry, not afraid, just steady. She's worked here for almost 30 years, Vivien said quietly. Longer than you've been alive.
I think that's worth more respect than you're giving her. The booth went quiet for a second. Preston's smirk faltered just barely before he covered it with a short laugh. Whatever, he said, waving a hand. Just bring more napkins.
Vivien nodded once and walked away. She didn't feel proud of herself. She didn't feel like a hero. She just felt like she'd done the smallest, most obvious thing a decent person could do. She had no idea that Preston Colby did not forget moments like that.
He remembered every single one, and he never let them go unanswered for long. Back on campus, the semester kept moving forward. Vivienne's classes settled into a rhythm. She liked her composition professor, a soft-spoken man named Dr. Halloway, who seemed to genuinely enjoy reading what his students wrote.
She liked her chemistry lab partner, a nervous but kind sophomore named Priya, who talked fast and laughed easily once she warmed up. She did not particularly enjoy sharing a lecture hall with Preston Colby three times a week. It turned out he was in her intro to psychology class, sitting near the front, surrounded by friends, always ready with a joke whenever the professor paused too long. Some of the class found him funny, some found him exhausting. Almost nobody said anything either way.
Vivien sat in the back as always and mostly ignored him. That worked fine for about 10 days. Then came the group project. Professor Ellison, a sharp no-nonsense woman in her 50s, assigned the class into groups of four for a research presentation on childhood development. The groups were pulled randomly from a spreadsheet.
No favorites, no exceptions. Vivien's group included Priya, a quiet boy named Elliot Sawyer, and Preston Colby. When the professor read the names aloud, Vivien felt her stomach tighten slightly. Across the room, she saw Preston roll his eyes at his friends before turning to look for his new group. He spotted Vivien in the back and smirked.
"Great," he said loud enough for her to hear. As he walked over, "The waitress and I are in the same class.". A couple of people nearby chuckled. Vivien said nothing. She simply opened her notebook and got ready to work.
The project moved forward the way most college group projects do unevenly. Priya did more than her share. organizing their research into neat color-coded notes. Elliot, a quiet freshman with glasses and a nervous habit of tapping his pen, did solid, careful work, but rarely spoke up in group discussions. Preston did almost nothing. He showed up to their first meeting 15 minutes late, spent most of it on his phone, and left early for practice.
At their second meeting, he didn't show up at all. At their third and final meeting, Preston did show up, dropping into the seat across from Priya with the air of someone doing everyone a favor by being there at all. He skimmed the notes Priya had put together, nodded along without really reading them, and asked, "So, what part am I doing again?" As though the assignment sheet with his name on it hadn't been sitting in the shared folder for 2 weeks, Priya, to her credit, kept her voice level and simply pointed him to his section. He said he'd handle it. He did not handle it.