Anywhere You Go

1

Tatum

My favorite shift at Rita's Diner is noon to six, right between the lunch and dinner rushes. There's a sweet spot around three thirty. Only the regulars are here, plus a few random stragglers. Light streams in through the tall windows that run the length of the building, pouring golden magic onto every cracked vinyl booth and checkered floor tile. The outdated things in this place look lovely at this hour. And the lovely things look even better.

Like June Lightbell. She may as well be surrounded by a choir of angels at this time of day, sitting like she does with one leg crossed atop the other, her head propped up in her hand with an elbow on the table. The sun slices a delicate beam across her face, accentuating the sparkling highlighter on her cheeks.

She glances up to wave. I wave back, nonchalant, as if these small exchanges don't hold much weight. As if it didn't alter our dynamic at all when she asked me out and I turned her down. So what if the sight of her continues to make my stomach do a cartwheel? That will go away.

It's just taking a little longer than I expected.

My phone pings-an email to my special inbox.

"Tatum," my manager, Denise, says. "Devices away."

"One sec," I tell her, reading quickly. "I've got a new client asking for a one-day turnaround. Looks like they want a breakup text."

My loved ones used to joke that I could make a living off writing other people's difficult messages for them. Resignations, breakups, family fights, that kind of thing. It seemed like every other week I was helping someone draft a life-changing document. What would start as What do you think I should say to my boss about deserving a raise? would turn into me sending over my fourteenth revision in an email detailing my cousin's intrinsic value to the front-desk team at the hair salon. About a year ago, I decided it was time to expand my reach and set up an actual website.

I certainly don't make a living, because I don't charge anything, and these days, people love to tell me that AI has replaced my unique gift anyway. Good thing it's not about money. Drafting messages for other people gives me a sense of purpose. I can gift them the words they struggle to find. I get to feel good about helping someone else put their best foot forward in the world. And really, it's nice to solve someone else's problems. Mine are unsolvable. It would be like trying to remove the flour from a loaf of bread. The issues are all the way baked in.

My clients submit anonymously through my website, and their information is encrypted. Occasionally I have to follow up with questions about what kind of tone they're hoping for, or some details that will really make the message sing. Sometimes they reveal personal information in that process. Most of the time, I never find out who it is I'm pretending to be.

Every so often, someone is upset, and they email me to complain. It's usually about a breakup that's gone south, and it never has anything to do with my expertly crafted message. I can't control what happens after someone else presses send. That's life. We can say every single thing exactly right and still not get the result we imagined from it. That's the part that AI will never understand-the complexity of being human.

"June's looking at you," Denise says.

My eyes dart to June's table again. Her hair is always changing, and for the last two weeks it's been in a sleek black bob that comes in just above her chin. It looks perfect on her, but I could say the same of every style she's worn. The natural curls, the braids. All of it looks incredible. There's a coyness to this particular hairstyle. She's paired it with a long beige trench coat and black Mary Janes, and she looks very Parisian chic for someone who lives in Trove Hills, Illinois.

She is looking at me. Waving again. Except it's not a wave hello. She's waving me over.

"I brought you something," she says, pulling a tiny vial out of her bag. "I think I finally got your mix right. Bergamot, vetiver, and fig are the base." She pinches the tiny container between her long brown fingers, popping the lid off to smell what she's made. "With some patchouli and cedar as the middle notes. A little bit of black tea on top. There's a milk scent in there too, but it was hard to get it to show up with everything else. Let me know if it comes through for you."

June Lightbell has made me my own perfume.

She pushes the open vial toward me, wafting the scent up to my nostrils.

"Smells . . . earthy," I say, remembering her using that word once. Asking me if that's what I liked. I told her I did, because I didn't really know what it meant when it came to perfumes. In truth, this smells . . . strange. Like someone sprayed a tree-scented air freshener over mildew, then tried to cover that scent up with something sweeter.

"I wanted it to be like getting lost in the woods during a storm," she says, "then finding a tiny house to hide inside, where there's already a fire going and tea brewing on the stove."

God, her voice is something. It's coy, but it has these occasional low notes-a darkness that simmers beneath the surface of her gentle coolness. I'd love to have that voice right up against my ear, telling me I'm a good girl.

I shudder, hating my mind for how it wanders. June has come in to the diner a few times a week for over a year now. By this point she must agree with me that my artful rejection was the right move for us both.

She has a girlfriend now. Her name is Vanessa. Vanessa is incapable of letting a small moment embarrass her. Not when she got my name wrong for the third time in a single day, or when one of the cooks accidentally walked in on her in our bathroom because she forgot to lock the door.

June and Vanessa are a perfect match. They wear trendy clothes together and talk about astrology at a level I don't quite understand, obsessing over how someone's eighth house Venus would totally overwhelm a tenth house Sun, or something like that. They sometimes touch each other's hands as they eat, laughing in this hushed, private way that tells me their relationship is full of inside jokes no one else could possibly comprehend.

It's the way all of this is meant to be.

In fact, I find Vanessa's presence in June's life to be motivating. Around them both, I become the most heightened version of myself that exists-the sweet, quirky waitress who flits by to drop off their drinks, saying silly little things to pad out their cute life together. "Don't forget to put on your coat! Can't have you both catching a cold on me!" I tell them when it's chilly outside, or "This one's on the house" with a joking wink when I refill their waters.

It's my favorite part of this job. Every day, I get to make something special out of the mundane, sprinkling good cheer atop someone else's scrambled eggs and toast. I have the constant opportunity to fill other people's lives with charm, and because I do so, my life feels charming too. It's simple and sweet. Uncomplicated.

When Vanessa isn't here, my personality is a little more subdued, but it's still an enhancement of sorts. Safe in the world of Rita's wood-paneled walls and yellow vinyl booths, June doesn't complain when her burger is overcooked or her coffee tastes burnt. I've never once told her about the countless times my shift's already ended and I've been waiting for her to finish up so I can close out her check. She can ask me out here, and I can turn her down, and it doesn't change who we are to each other, because the bubble protects us both.

That's the magic of a good diner.

"It's so nice," I say to her, leaning down to waft the perfume's scent toward me again. Maybe it's an acquired taste, like olives.

Unfortunately, I've yet to acquire that taste.

"It felt like you," she says. "Mysterious, but comforting." Her voice is a feather that's run up my spine, giving me shivers. "Layered."

She was thinking about me at home. Smelling different things, putting them together, trying to make them equal something that feels like me to her. And apparently I feel like a house in the woods during a storm, mysterious and comforting. Right now I actually feel like an underbaked cake balanced on a precarious ledge, moments from crashing to the floor, but June doesn't need to know that.

She wraps her hand around my forearm. The shock of the touch makes me hold my breath. She has fine-line tattoos on her hands. Stars. A crescent moon. Roman numerals, etched down her fingers. She rubs the scent into my wrist, then pulls my wrist to her nose.

June believes I like perfume because one time, not long before she asked me out, I got curious about what fragrance she wears, and I very casually requested the name so I could maybe get some for myself. Instead of telling me outright, she stuck her neck out to let me smell her as she informed me she actually runs her own perfume business, so she wears a scent she makes for herself.

Now, for the first time ever, June Lightbell is smelling me.

Working at a diner means I reek of fried food most days. Or something even sexier, like ranch dressing. There is very little actual glamour in this place, though June's continued patronage has convinced me to make myself presentable, if only to honor the fact that she always looks so put together. Another layer to the daily performance.

Today my hair is in two messy buns. I have to wear it up at work, and this style holds my curls back the best while projecting the kind of friendly harmlessness I like to exude. I also did a full face of my favorite makeup this morning, attempting the high-risk, high-reward act of doing a winged eye and red lip. Now June is sniffing my skin, telling me this blend she concocted in her perfume palace reminded her of me, and I am quite pleased to have come out on the winning side of today's fight with my liquid liner.

"What do you think?" I dare to ask.

Disappointment scrunches up her nose, making a series of actual creases on the bridge. "It isn't right," she says as she lets go of me to reach for her journal and jot something down.

"I'm really honored you made it," I say, figuring that doubling down on my initial lie about enjoying the smell might be too obvious now that she's revealed her own displeasure. Besides, this much is true. I am honored. And maybe, deep down, a little confused by the gesture. But there's no point in bringing that up. "What do I owe you for it?"

To the table, she blushes. "Oh god, nothing. It's not the right formula. And I'd never charge you anyway. You always let me sit here for hours."

You wouldn't know she's a paying customer who goes out of her way to buy things every hour she's here, as if we might chase her out of our mostly empty establishment for not purchasing enough food.

"I can't take a fragrance from a professional perfumer without paying you for it," I reply. "This is your life's work!"

"Please," she says, laughing. "It's not that deep."

There's a twinkle in her eye that sends another little thrill down my spine. The exact kind of thrill I shouldn't be having around her.

Honestly, it is that deep. And that's why I can't let myself be charmed.

"How's Vanessa?" I toss out, hoping to squash the sensation. "I haven't seen her in a minute."

"Oh," June says, clearing her throat, all traces of her laughter erased. "She's good. She's been really busy lately."

"She works in tech, right?"

Only after I ask do I remember this is not something June or Vanessa has ever told me. It's something I learned from looking at Vanessa's social media.

"Gotta imagine that's a stressful job," I continue, pressing on anyway, convincing myself June doesn't remember this. "Can't let the robots take over."

June laughs, and seeing her lit up gives me another small thrill-the third in almost as many minutes-tingling all the way down to my toes this time.

Okay, fine. So I'm thrilled. What's the harm in making a pretty woman smile every so often?

I smell the perfume again. "While we're on the topic, I'd love to see a robot try to sneak a milk note into the top layer of a custom-made perfume. Please. They wouldn't know the first thing about how to balance that with the vetiver base, I can tell you that much."

June continues laughing, grinning all the way to her molars as she says, "They might think the answer is more cedar."

"Exactly." I point at her, letting her know we're on the same wavelength. "I know I'm doing my part. Just a bit ago, I turned to Denise and said, 'Have you ever noticed that most robots don't know how much cedar to put into a perfume?'"

June leans forward, chin resting in her hand again. "What did Denise say?"

"She pulled a notebook out of her pocket and said, 'Speak more on this, Tatum. I want to be prepared.'"

June lets go completely, her laughter full and genuine.

The thrill envelops me. I become pure lightness and joy.

Which means it's officially time to stop. It's overtaken my whole body. That is dangerous territory. I've gotten way too close to the edge. It's time to walk it back. That's the only way to get close to what I really want without letting it hurt me.

"I better get back to work," I say, looking off toward the kitchen as if I have something to do. In reality, I'll spend this downtime filling up sugar ramekins or reorganizing our tea packets by color. "Thank you for the perfume. I can't wait to use it like a captcha test, making all my customers smell it to prove they're not a robot. I've got my suspicions about Mr. Tompkins."

"I'll make you a better one soon," June assures me.

"That's not necessary," I say for good measure.

"Yes, it is," she tells me, determined.