One fake kiss away

JUNIPER

I wiped my hands on the front of my apron—third time in the last five minutes—and forced a smile as the bell above the door jingled for the umpteenth time that shift.

“So that’s two Big Betty Burgers with extra fries and two large sodas. Comes to twenty-seven fifty, please.”

The guy in front of me—Chad, or maybe it was Chet; regulars like him all blurred together after a while—was already leaning too far over the counter, elbows planted like he owned the place.

He was a fixture here: mid-thirties, backward baseball cap, the kind of smirk that said he’d never heard “no” enough times growing up.

His girlfriend sat in their usual booth by the window, scrolling through her phone with the blank patience of someone who’d long since tuned out his bullshit.

He fished out his wallet slowly.

“Damn, girl, you look good in that uniform,” he drawled, leaning farther over the counter until I could smell the stale coffee and cheaper-aftershave clinging to him.

His eyes raked down my torso—slow, shameless—

Then they flicked back up to meet mine, expectant, like I was supposed to blush or giggle or thank him for the compliment.

“Bet that little dress comes off even better,” he added,

His gaze dragged downward again, lingering on every inch the too-tight striped polo couldn’t hide.

The fabric pulled tight across my chest no matter how many times I tugged at it, the buttons straining like they were one deep breath away from popping.

The retro getup—red-and-white striped polo tucked into a high-waisted skirt, complete with a little white collar and cuffs—was supposed to scream “classic diner charm.” Instead, it screamed “too small.”

I’d begged Rich, my boss, to order a bigger size at least a dozen times. Every time, he’d wave me off with the same line:

“Budget’s tight, kid. It fits fine. Just suck it in.”

Chad's stare settled on my breasts and stayed there, unblinking, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

I felt the heat crawl up my neck, the same mix of anger and exhaustion I got every time he pulled this crap.

I tapped the register screen harder than necessary.

“Twenty-seven fifty,” I repeated, voice flat.

“Come on, don’t be like that. I’ll give you forty if you write your digits on the ticket for me.” He winked—actually winked—like we were in on some secret joke.

“Cash tip, too. No strings.”

He probably thought he was irresistible.

I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his forty bucks. I wanted to kick the stool out from under him and watch him eat linoleum. Instead, I met his eyes, held them just long enough to let him know I wasn’t intimidated, then looked past him to the total glowing on the screen.

“Twenty-seven fifty,” I said again, slower this time.

“Cash or card?”

His smirk faltered for half a second—barely noticeable, but I caught it. Good.

He slapped a thirty on the counter, waited like he expected me to gush over the extra two-fifty.

“Keep the change,” he muttered, sliding the bill toward me with two fingers.

“But seriously… number?”

I picked up the money without touching his hand, rang it through, and tore off the receipt. I slid it across the counter along with his change—without a word.

He stared at the blank slip for a beat, then laughed it off like it was all part of the game.

“Your loss, sweetheart.”

As he turned back toward the booth,

I let out the breath I’d been holding.

His girlfriend finally looked up, just long enough to give him a tired half-smile when he slid in beside her.

I turned to the next customer, pasting the smile back on.

“Hi, what can I get started for you?”

Inside, the anger still simmered.

One day—one day—I’d say exactly what I wanted to say.

Until then, I’d keep ringing up orders, wiping counters, and pretending guys like him didn’t exist.

But damn if it didn’t get harder every shift.

I was a scholarship student, yes—full ride, merit-based—but that “full ride” only covered tuition.

Not books. Not lab fees. Not the off-campus apartment Dad and I squeezed into so we could split rent.

Not the bus fare that ate half my tips some weeks. The university called it a “comprehensive package.” I called it a very polite way of saying good luck with the rest.

My mom ran off when I was ten.

Packed a suitcase in the middle of the night, left a note on the kitchen table that said something about “following her heart” and “a better life,” and disappeared with some rich guy she’d met at a hotel bar.

I still remember the way Dad’s face looked when he read it—blank at first, then cracked open like something inside him had finally given up.

He didn’t cry in front of me. He just folded the note, put it in his pocket, and started working double shifts the next week.

He never talked about her after that. Never bad-mouthed her. Never let me see how much it gutted him.

He worked construction, all hours, overtime whenever he could get it.

He came home smelling like concrete dust and exhaustion, shoulders rounded like the weight of the world had settled there permanently.

So when the scholarship letter came, I didn’t celebrate.

I calculated.

Tuition: covered. Room and board: not included. Books: hundreds every semester.

I looked at Dad—tired, proud, pretending he wasn’t already picking up overtime—and made a promise to myself right there on the kitchen table.

I’d pay for the rest.

That’s why I was here, wiping down counters at Marty’s Diner at 11 p.m.

Because every twenty-dollar tip, every extra shift, every time I swallowed a creep’s comment—it was one less thing Dad had to worry about.

I glanced up from wiping the counter, rag still damp in my hand, and my stomach dropped like I’d just missed the last step on a staircase.

Just my luck.

There they were: Tracy Evans and her little entourage—the pack of campus royals who ruled the social hierarchy like it was their birthright.