On her lunch break, she walks four blocks down Main Street to where Whitmore Construction keeps its main office, a low brick building, a gravel lot full of trucks. She doesn't go in, just stands across the street watching men load equipment. Watching an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, she notes a few truck numbers in her notebook. Quick practiced shorthand. Nobody would think twice about it.
Then she walks back before her break runs out. Ordinary as anyone taking 15 minutes of fresh air. Nobody in Marlo Creek would guess what she's really doing. That this job, this diner wasn't a coincidence at all. She thinks of her father sometimes in these small moments.
He used to say patience wasn't the absence of action. It was action, just slower, harder to watch. She didn't always understand what he meant. She understands it more now than she ever wanted to. By 9:00, the diner has quieted into its mid-morning lull.
That's when the trucks pull in. Four of them parked crooked across two spots each. Like the painted lines don't apply to whoever is driving. Grant Whitmore walks in first, 24 years old. Broad shoulders, an easy grin that's never had to work because attention has always just been handed to him.
Behind him, three friends. Chase Dean Ryan loud before they even sit down. Me's shoulders tighten the second the door opens. Rosie's smile gets a little more careful. Grant drops into a booth like he owns it.
In a way, his family sort of does. New girl, he calls out loud enough for the whole diner. You're new. I am, Josie says, walking over. What can I get you?
Depends. Grant says, looking her up and down slowly. You any good at your job? Josie's face doesn't change. I'll find out along with you.
A couple friends laugh. Grant doesn't, not right away. He's used to people being flustered by him. This is new coffee, he finally says for black. Coming right up.
She brings the coffee carefully, one cup at a time, careful not to spill a drop. As she sets the last cup down, his arm shifts sudden, almost lazy, the cup tips. Hot coffee spreads across the table onto his jeans. He jumps up fast, yelling before the cup even stops spinning. What is wrong with you?
You just poured that on me. The whole diner goes quiet. Forks stop midair. Me freezes near the register. Josie is already grabbing napkins.
Already wiping the table. Calm is still water. I'm sorry. Let me get you fresh napkins. I'll have Rosie comp your order.
That's not the point. Grant snaps. You spilled a whole cup on me. Do you even know how to hold a tray? His friends are laughing now.
Phones half raised. Josie keeps wiping the table. Keeps her voice level. I understand you're upset. I'll fix it.
Fix it. Grant repeats, mocking her tone. Cute. You going to cry about it, too? Josie looks up at him.
Just for a second. Her eyes aren't angry. They're almost calm. Calm in a way that doesn't match the moment at all. No, she says simply.