Page 22 of Roommate's Guide to Love

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “First, where would I live? Mom, Dad, I love you, but I’m pretty sure none of us would love each other if I moved back in this house.”

“Oh, you aren’t moving back here,” Dad says. “I’m done having to worry about when you’re coming and going.”

He gives me a wink as we share the inside joke.

“Easy,” Simon says. “The apartment above Mona’s Diner is open. You’ll stay there.”

I shake my head. “Simon, that’s great and all, but you’re not going to just give me an apartment. I’d pay rent.”

He waves me off. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about. But I don’t want you not having a place to live being the reason you don’t get your ass back here.”

I let out a sigh as I turn to look at my sisters, who are all now sitting and looking at me with pleading, puppy-dog eyes.

“I know you three have to be loving this,” I say. “But if I agree to do this, I need you to know that this isn’t permanent. It’s just for now. Until I figure out my next move.”

The three eagerly nod their heads before Stella speaks up. “We miss you, Quinn. However long you’re here, we’re glad to have you back.”

Maeve takes my hand. “Let us help you. This is going to be a big thing to figure out, and you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

I finally look at Ainsley, even though I know what she’s going to say. “Any chance you’re going to be the dissenting vote?”

She shakes her head at my attempt at a joke. “Absolutely not. Come home, Quinn. Where you belong.”

7

porter

People hate Mondays.Not me. The Joint doesn’t open until four, so I have the morning and early afternoon to catch up on life. Run some errands. Go to the gym.

But most importantly, I have time to sit down and get breakfast at the best damn diner in all of Tennessee.

Mona’s Diner is a staple of Rolling Hills and has fed generations in this town. After my mom split, Pops and I started coming here each Saturday morning. What began as a way for him to distract me from the fact that it was just the two of us quickly became our weekly tradition. As the months and years went on, it became our time to catch up. He’d talk about the bar and his pals. I’d talk about school, football, and whatever else I had going on.

Pops has been gone eight years now, and I still can’t bear to come in on a Saturday morning. But even though it’s now been sold to Charlie Bennett, soon to be Banks, I still make sure I’m here once a week.

“You know the only reason I know it’s Monday is because you come in,” Charlie says as I walk up to the breakfast counter.

“I’m glad I can serve as your calendar,” I say. “What’s the special today?”

Charlie picks up the pot of coffee and pours me a mug. I might change my order every week depending on my mood, but I’ll never change that I need two cups of coffee. Whatever she puts in this stuff is addicting.

“I’m testing out fried chicken and waffles. I also have a vegan?—”

I hold up my hands, because whatever she was going to say wasnotchicken and waffles and nothing vegan was going to come close. “Say no more. Test it out on me. And add a side of bacon, if you don’t mind?”

“Just one side?” she asks, apparently knowing my stomach better than me.

“Fine. Make it a double. Crispy.”

She shakes her head, but sends me a warm smile. “Like I’d serve it any other way.”

“You’re the best, Charlie!” I give her a wink as she heads back to the kitchen. In turn I take my mug of coffee and walk around the corner to my normal back booth.

One of the things I love about a small town is that whether it’s here or at the bar, regulars have their own spots. Take today, for example. The group of older men who come in every morning for their coffee and bitchin’ pull together two tables at the front of the diner. You know, because everyone needs to hear them complaining about technology and young people today. It’s also the last Monday of the month, which means the town’s planning committee, a group of women who’ve made it their life’s mission to make sure that every holiday has some sort of extravagant event around it, is meeting at the long table that runs along the windows. I say hello to them as I pass by, and notice that pictures of American flags are spread out on the table. I’m guessing they’re finalizing plans for the Memorial Day parade and town festival.

Then there’s me. I choose to sit in the back booth that’s just a little bit removed from the main part of the dining room. It’s quiet. No one bothers me. Hell, no one ever sits back here, so I can enjoy my breakfast in peace.

Except today, when I turn the corner and see someone sitting there.

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