Page 21 of The Hearts We Fumble
But as much as I enjoy it, I know it’s not forever.
Still, Sweet Tooth means something to me.
It’s where I met Tatum, where our friendship started over shared shifts, sugar-dusted aprons, and late-night recipe experiments.
And honestly? That alone makes it worth every second.
The doorbell chimes as we step into the small diner, the scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon wrapping around us like a familiar hug.
We don’t bother waiting for a server to seat us. We never do.
Tatum and I come here often for lunch, study sessions, and late-night milkshakes after a long shift at Sweet Tooth. This booth in the corner? It’s our spot.
If it’s open, it’s ours. An unspoken rule.
I slide in first, already knowing what I want before I even pick up a menu.
Tatum, on the other hand, still flips through hers, even though she almost always orders the same thing.
Across the room, Susie—the diner’s longtime server—makes her rounds, dropping off plates, refilling coffee mugs, and throwing in the occasional joke. When she finally reaches us, she grins, eyes already on her notepad as if she doesn’t need to look up to know who she’s talking to.
“Hey, girlies. How’re you doin’?” She scribbles something quickly, then glances at me. “Your usual, Wyatt?”
I tilt my head back against the booth, nodding. “You know it. But make it a Sprite today.”
Susie smirks. “Switching things up, huh?”
“Wild, I know.”
Tatum hums, still browsing the menu even though we both know what she’ll end up going with.
As Susie jots down my order, I glance around, taking in the checkered tile floor, the retro jukebox in the corner, and the soft hum of seventies music floating through the air.
The whole place feels like a scene straight out ofGrease—red leather booths, chrome-accented stools at the counter, a server in a pink uniform balancing plates with one hand and pouring coffee with the other.
The leather sticks to my thighs, and I shift, reaching down to tug my shorts lower.
It’s taken me a long time to feel comfortable wearing shorts in public.
For years, I stuck to leggings and cotton shorts, only wearing them at home where no one would judge the shape of my legs.
I take after the men in my family—stronger, broader, built with bigger arms and legs. And when you grow up surrounded by guys like Colter, Zane, and their friends, the girls at school don’t let you forget it.
They used to whisper behind my back and point out the things I was already self-conscious about. The way my jeans never fit quite right, the way my body didn’t look like theirs.
But college changed things.
I forced myself out of my comfort zone, slowly swapping out leggings for denim, figuring out what fit, what worked, and what made me feel like me.
Some days, I still hear those voices from the past that made me hate looking in the mirror.
But today? Today, I ignore them.
And I sit here, in my distressed shorts, in my favorite diner, surrounded by people who actually matter, and remind myself—I belong just as much as anyone else.
“So you never did tell me what happened after the Keaton party… and Zane taking you home.”
Tatum’s voice is casual, but I don’t miss the underlying curiosity in her tone.
