Chapter 12: A note

The smell of frying bacon is usually comforting, but right now, it feels oily and thick in my throat. I stand behind the kitchen's swinging doors, my fingers white as I grip the edge of the stainless steel counter. Through the small, grease-streaked window, I see the back of Jaxson’s head. He is a dark silhouette against the bright, cheap lights of the diner.

"Here are the four pancakes and the fruit bowl for the table of royals," Sarah says, sliding the heavy plates onto the staging area. She doesn't walk away. She leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. "Your hands are shaking, Maya."

I look down. The order pad is trembling in my grip. I shove it into my apron pocket and grab the syrup dispenser, my movements jerky and sharp. "The floor is vibrating. The refrigerator is old."

"The refrigerator isn't making your face look like a sunset," Sarah whispers. She nudges my shoulder with her elbow, a wide, knowing grin stretching across her face. "That boy just threw away his entire reputation for a girl in a hairnet. Did you see Chloe’s face? She looked like she just swallowed a lemon."

"He’s just being decent," I mutter. I reach for the tray, but Sarah puts her hand over mine, stopping me.

"Decent is saying 'please.' What he did... that was a declaration." She leans closer, her voice dropping so only I can hear it over the sizzle of the grill. "He’s the King of Eastview, Maya. He doesn't go to war for decent. He goes to war for things he wants to keep."

"He doesn't want to keep me," I snap. I pull my hand away and lift the heavy tray onto my shoulder. The weight of the plates bites into my muscle, but I welcome the pain. It’s better than the fluttering sensation in my stomach. "I hate him, Sarah. Remember? My brother? The garage? The fight?"

"You're saying the words," Sarah says, pulling back and reaching for a coffee pot. "But your eyes are saying something else. Go on. Serve your hero."

I push through the swinging doors. The noise of the diner hits me—the clinking of silverware, the low hum of the ceiling fans, and the heavy, awkward silence at the corner booth.

As I approach, Miller is the only one moving. He is tapping a rhythm on his water glass with a spoon, his eyes darting from Jaxson to me, then back again. Chloe is staring at her reflection in a spoon, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line.

Jaxson is still leaning back against the vinyl seat. He hasn't looked at his friends since he sat down. When I set the plates down, the clatter of the ceramic against the table sounds like a gavel.

"Pancakes for the end," I say. I set the plate down in front of the boy who threw the sugar packet. He doesn't look at me. He stares at the syrup bottle as if it's a bomb.

I reach over to set the fruit bowl in front of Chloe. She pulls her arms back, making sure her expensive sleeve doesn't touch my hand. "I don't want it anymore," she says, her voice cold and sharp. "It’s probably touched the floor by now."

"Eat the fruit, Chloe," Jaxson says. He doesn't raise his voice, but the tone is flat and final.

Chloe looks at him, her eyes welling with frustrated tears. "You're taking her side? Over mine? We’ve known each other since we were five, Jax."

Jaxson finally turns his head. He doesn't look at me, but he doesn't look at Chloe either. He looks at the space between us. "I'm taking the side of the person who isn't acting like a brat."

I feel the heat flare in my cheeks again. I turn to leave, but as I shift the tray, my hip bumps into the edge of the table. Jaxson’s hand shoots out instinctively. He catches my forearm to steady me.

The contact is brief—just a second of warm, calloused fingers against my skin—but it feels like a spark of lightning. I pull away as if I’ve been burned. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat. His are dark, full of something heavy and unspoken.

"Refills?" I ask, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else.

"We’re good," Miller says, his eyes narrowing as he watches the exchange. He looks at the spot on my arm where Jaxson touched me. A strange, knowing smile curls his lip. "We’re more than good."

I turn and walk away, my feet moving on autopilot. I don't go back to the kitchen. I go to the supply closet in the back and shut the door. It’s dark inside, smelling of pine cleaner and dust.

I lean my head against the cool metal shelf. My heart is a drum in my ears. I hate him, I tell myself. I think about Leo’s limp. I think about the medical bills. I think about the way Jaxson Thorne stood in the garage a year ago, watching his friends laugh while my brother bled.

But then I think about the way his hand felt on my arm just now. I think about the way he stood up in that booth, his hands slamming the table to protect a girl who has nothing.

I’m supposed to be the one fixing him. I’m supposed to be the one in control.

I hear the bell at the front door chime. I crack the closet door open just enough to see. The group is leaving. Chloe is walking fast, her head held high. Miller follows, still looking at his phone.

Jaxson is the last one out. He stops at the door. He doesn't look back at the booth. He looks directly at the service window where Sarah is standing. Then his gaze shifts, searching the room until he finds me through the crack in the closet door.

He doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. He just gives a single, slow nod before he pushes the door open and disappears into the bright Saturday sun.

I step out of the closet, my breath coming out in a long, shaky exhale.

"Maya!" Sarah calls from the counter. She’s holding a small piece of paper. "He left this under his coffee cup."

I walk over, my pulse racing. I take the paper. It isn't a receipt. It’s a napkin with a single line of messy, dark ink.

Meet me at the park. 9:00 PM. Don't be late.

I crumple the napkin in my fist. I should throw it away. I should go home to Leo and remind myself why the Thorne family is the enemy.

But I tuck the napkin into my pocket, right next to the code for his pool house.