Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

We were servants of the affluent. We lived outside the snow globe of entitlement. Close enough to shake it up, watch the chaos we caused, and then set that pretty picture-perfect world aside to collect dust until next season.

I pass the food truck and cross the street, heading for Tom’s Diner, where my mom has worked for as long as I can remember. As a teen I used to pick her up from work all the time. Never my brother, though, because he wasn’t very reliable, and half the time he didn’t have car privileges. Seems like not much has changed.

I brace myself as I peer through the frosted glass, taking in the tables and people sitting at them. The diner is mostly frequented by older townies or the summer teens from the rich side of the lake. Townie teens tend not to eat there, favoring the food truck for the cheaper food and the lack of adult and parental supervision.

I open the door, the bell above me tinkling softly. A few heads turn as I step inside the air-conditioned diner and let the door fall closed behind me, the puff of hot, humid air following me in. I shiver as the heat is eaten up and absorbed by the cool blast coming from the vent above my head.

“Darlin’!” my mom exclaims from her spot behind the counter.

She wipes her hands on her apron and slides behind one of the other servers, who is punching in an order at the computerized register. It must be an upgrade since I was last here. The girl at the computer turns toward the door, her expression registering shock as her gaze slides over me. She’s vaguely familiar, and it takes me a few moments to realize she’s Claire, the youngest sister of one of the girls I used to hang out with in high school but lost touch with after I moved to the city. More like ghosted on my part, which makes being back here that much more challenging.

Familiar faces line the counter, townies who eat at the diner on a regular basis, some of whom come for breakfast and don’t leave until the same time my mom’s shift ends in the afternoon, drinking coffee and using the place like it’s their own personal living room, not an actual diner.

“My baby is home!” My mom throws her arms around my neck, and I stumble forward a step. She’s several inches shorter than me, and I’m wearing heels—admittedly not the best choice for driving a U-Haul, but old habits apparently die hard. They’re also a bit of rebellion, signifying my reluctance to return to the place I only ever planned to visit for holidays.

Other than being several inches taller than her, I’m pretty much a carbon copy of my mom. We have the same unruly, curly blonde hair, pale-green eyes, button nose, and full lips. We both have overactive metabolisms, which means keeping meat on our bones is basically impossible.

She grabs my hand and drags me toward the counter, lined with red vinyl-covered stools, and pats the top of a free one. “Sit down, I’m just cashing out. Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee? How about a slice of pie? The Fetterlys dropped off a batch of their strawberry rhubarb custard pies. You know the ones with the crumble topping? How ’bout a slice of that?”

As much as I want to say no, because I’d rather get the heck out of here and away from all the familiar faces and the inevitable gossip, the Fetterlys’ pie is the best in the county, winning awards every year at the fall fair. Besides, I sort of feel like eating my feelings.

“Maybe you could pack me up a slice? I had lunch on the way here.” It’s not a complete lie. I ate an entire bag of trail mix on the drive from the city. It’s more that I don’t want to get sucked into conversations with people I haven’t seen in years who will want to talk about what happened with my brother and ask questions about me.

“Sure, of course. Just coffee, then.” My mom slips back behind the counter and quickly sets a mug down by the stool, the only one not yet taken. She pours a steaming cup of fresh coffee while I drop down next to Rudy Dunn, who also happens to own the food truck across the street. Or at least he did.

My mom tops up his coffee and then goes back to cashing out.

“Well, if it isn’t little Dillion Stitch. Ya done growed up, didn’t ya?”

“Seems that way. Still running the food truck?”

“Sure am. Got my niece working there this summer. Brings in all those teen boys from the other side of the lake. Same as that summer you worked the truck. Gotta keep a close eye on things, but can’t say it’s bad for business, ya know? She’s nicer to look at than this old mug.” His grin is missing a couple of teeth at the edge of his smile line.

I return the smile. I remember exactly what it was like when those summer boys would show up in their flashy cars, or on their new ATVs. They’d hang out near the picnic table, flash their flawless smiles, and flirt shamelessly. They were always trying to hook up with the local girls, almost like it was some kind of game for them. But when they showed up on our side of the lake for parties, it was their turn to learn their place in this town.

One time I kissed a summer boy on the beach to get back at my on-again, off-again boyfriend, who had decided we needed a break.

It had been the kind of kiss to sink into, at least until someone had made a “trailer trash” comment. That didn’t go over well. At the time, townies didn’t like it when one of the summer boys took advantage of their own or, worse, point out how much less they thought of us. Fights happened, and townies didn’t care about broken noses or scars. I’d left the beach as soon as the fists started flying, not wanting to deal with the embarrassment or humiliation. I’m not sure how much has changed in the years I’ve been gone, based on who was sitting by the food truck when I passed it.