Wilde Fire

Chapter 19: Present

The behind-the-scenes breakfast rush at Rusty's Diner is unlike anything I've ever seen. Frank is the main man behind the cooking. He is shuffling between various pans and skillets along the giant stovetop, a toothpick between his teeth as he calls out commands to the other men behind him. "Charlie, 'notha round of biscuits!" he yells out as I slip my way through to the stock room for more napkins.

The crew at Rusty's are a well-oiled machine, which explains why the food is always so good. Every person has a position in the kitchen, and they work together to get the job done. It's almost flawless. I am sure it would be even better if they were ever able to afford upgrades to the ancient kitchen equipment.

I find the napkins and quickly take them back out front, where Sheila, my trainer, snatches them out of my hand and begins to take them out to tables. She's a little abrasive, but I pin it on just being her personality. "Thanks, hon," she says as she comes back over to the host stand, where I have been instructed to stand for now unless my assistance is needed in other places.

She stashes more straws and packages of jelly into her apron, then counts the stack of bills in her hand and places them into a fanny pack on her waist. "Whew, what a mornin'," she exclaims, wiping her hands on the legs of her jeans. "Rita told me to keep ya seatin' tables for now, until you can kinda see how things run 'round here." She ushers toward the stack of cash secured in her fanny pack. "Then the real money will start rollin' in for ya."

I smile. I'm not desperate for cash, but I know it will be helpful for college in the Fall. Fortunately, my grandparents paid for my entire tuition. They were eager to do anything to get me out of the house and do something with my life.

Working at Rusty's is really the most I've done in years. My feet remind me of it every time I try to walk. They are sore, not just from the blisters I put on them yesterday. I will need to invest in some better shoes for next time.

"Thank you, Sheila," I say honestly. She nods back, before retreating to take the order of another table.

Just as quickly as the rush begins, it ends rather abruptly. I went from seating every table in the diner within 10 minutes to waiting anxiously for everyone to leave. I stand at the host stand organizing the menus, when I look up and catch sight of the back of a blonde head.

I stop, swallowing hard. He is standing outside the door to the diner, deep in conversation. I watch as he puts his arm around a shorter girl with long, brunette hair. Is that his girlfriend? I watch intently as they finish their conversation, and then turn around to head inside.

I let out the breath I was holding. It's not Owen. I feel so relieved. While I really want to see him again, now is not the time. I am also not keen on the idea of seeing him with his girlfriend, even though I'm really curious what she's like. Is she from Kala? If not, how did he meet her? What's her name? Is she prettier than me?

I shake the thoughts away as I usher the blonde man--who definitely isn't Owen--and his girlfriend to a booth. Why am I even thinking about this?

I only seat two more tables before Sheila tells me I can head out for the day. "Rita said to only keep ya for the breakfast rush. It can be a little hectic to deal with both breakfast and lunch on ya first day," she admits to me. "But good job today, sweetie." She gives me a reassuring pat on the back, and I wonder how much Rita told her about me.

I thank Sheila again, then pop my head into the kitchen and wave goodbye to the backline crew. They all wave and smile, telling me they will see me in the morning. Most of the men know my parents, and most recognize me from when I was younger. Thankfully, none of them seem ashamed to be working alongside Ben Wilde's little sister. I was grateful.

I took off my apron and folded into the bag I'd brought with me before stepping out the front door. It was only 10:45, and the sun was bright and high in the sky. I still had so much time left in the day.

Rather than heading straight home, I decide to stop at the grocery store on my way. I am going to surprise my family by making a dessert to go with grandma's pot roast. I don't cook much, I definitely don't bake, but I watched my mother in the kitchen long enough to know the basics. Surely I can handle making a cake, even if I have to use a box mix. They will be happy with anything, I just know it.

I find the grocery store quicker than expected. It is still the only one in town, and in the same location it has been since I was younger. It is on the far side of the island, close enough to the shore to be supplied with fresh fish whenever they need it. From the parking lot, I can easily smell the salty ocean water filling the air, as well as the pungent aroma of the fish.

I step through the automatic doors, smiling at a passerby I vaguely recognize. I grab a cart and stop momentarily to check how much cash I have in my wallet. There is enough to get the necessities, but I will need to keep track to avoid the embarrassment of not having enough money to pay for it all. Having a job and making my own income was sounding better by the minute.

Since I don't remember where anything specific is located and I have time to spare, I decide to start in the very first aisle and work my way down. I survey the shelves of condiments, my eyes glancing over every label and brand name. I glance over at the produce section and debate on making a fruit salad, but the first price tag I see is enough to know that I can't afford it today.

I turn into the second aisle, mostly full of baking supplies. I push my cart to the side and reach up for a box of chocolate cake mix. I have just sat the box in my cart when I hear the soft clink of a Matchbox car hit the floor by my feet.

I glance around, but I am the only person in the aisle. I wait another moment before bending down to pick up the car. I hold it in my hands long enough to see that it is actually a miniature dump truck before I realize that I am alone anymore.

I look up and see a pair of wide, green eyes staring back at me. They are set on a small face, surrounded by a pile of messy auburn hair. I stare at the little boy before me and feel my stomach do a somersault. It is as if I am staring at the ghost of my brother as a child.

I swallow hard, reaching up with a shaking hand to return the dump truck. The boy grabs it, his sticky fingers brushing against my own.

I am hallucinating. That is my only solution. There is no possible way that a random child in the grocery store is Ben reincarnated.

"Thank you," the boy says softly.

I rub a hand over my eyes, hoping the image--the uncanny comparison--will disappear. I mutter a quick "you're welcome" and am prepared to leave, when another voice sounds around the corner.

"Noah?" A worried mother. A beautiful, young, worried mother. "I told you not to throw your toys, baby." She approaches us, a hand reaching out, her eyes on her child. But my eyes are stuck on her.

Kelby Blackwood.

"Oh my god." She finally notices me.

A hand flutters to her mouth.

"Sidney..." She reaches toward me, but I have never pulled away from someone so fast.

My chest tightens, my breath catching in my throat.

"Please, Sidney. I can explain." She grabs her child's hand and steps toward me.

I stumble backwards. This can't be real.

Kelby bends down and gathers the boy in her arms.

I am forced to look at him again, to stare into his green eyes and recall every memory, every moment that I can't get back.

I am shaking my head, I have been since I saw her.

I feel dizzy.

Kelby is crying. She is begging me to stop, to let her speak.

The only word I can mutter is "no." But it doesn't matter how many times the sound leaves my lips. The truth is right in front of me.

I wasn't hallucinating when I imagined the little boy with the green eyes and auburn hair to be my brother, because he was the next best thing: his son.