Chapter 9 - The Shift at the Diner
On Thursday afternoon, curiosity and a persistent knot in my gut drew me back toward Maple Avenue. I didn't park in front of Briana’s building; I parked down the street, outside a small, worn-down Greek diner called *The Olympia*.
Through the plate-glass window, I saw her.
Briana was wearing an oversized blue apron with grease stains near the hem and black non-slip shoes that looked completely foreign beneath her tapered designer leggings. Her hair, usually curled into bouncy salon waves, was pulled back into a messy, practical ponytail.
She was carrying a heavy plastic tray loaded with four ceramic mugs, a pot of decaf, and two baskets of fried clams.
Her arms trembled under the weight. She set the tray down on a booth edge, her lip quivering as she unloaded the plates. An elderly man at the counter waved a check at her impatiently, and a cook behind the pass shouted something in Greek that made her jump.
I stepped out of the car and walked into the diner. The bell above the door jingled.
Briana didn't look up immediately. "Booth or counter, hon—" She froze. The coffee pot in her right hand tilted, sending a splash of hot brew onto the stainless-steel counter.
"Sylvia?" she whispered.
She looked exhausted. Deep purple circles hung under her eyes. The polished, haughty influencer who had sneered at my advice two days ago looked entirely dismantled.
"Table for one," I said softly.
She swallowed hard, wiped down the counter with a damp rag, and gestured to a quiet booth in the corner. When I sat down, she didn't bring a menu. She stood by the table, clutching her order pad against her chest like a shield.
"Are you here to laugh?" she asked, her voice tight, tears threatening to spill over her mascara. "Because if you are, go ahead. Kostas told me if I didn't have fifty bucks for the utility deposit by Friday, he’d shut the gas off. The only place hiring on the block was here. I've been on my feet for nine hours. My back feels like it's broken. My feet are bleeding."
"I'm not laughing, Briana," I said honestly. "I worked this exact shift when I was nineteen. At the Denny’s off Route 4. Remember?"
Briana blinked, looking down. "I was twelve. I thought you were just hanging out with friends."
"I was paying for your private middle school uniform so Mom wouldn't get embarrassed at Sunday mass," I replied. "Briana, nobody wants to see you suffer. But nobody is going to carry you anymore. Not me. And after today, not Dad."
Briana looked up sharply. "What do you mean, Dad?"
"Dad knows everything. The credit cards. The loans. The fact that Mom burned through his pension fund to finance your aesthetic."
Briana stepped back, horror creeping across her features. "Mom told me... she told me Dad agreed to it! She said Dad wanted me to have the apartment at The Meridian so I could network with wealthy clients!"
"Mom lied to you, Briana. She fed your vanity so she could live vicariously through you, and she used my bank account as the credit line. Dad is filing for legal separation."
Briana collapsed into the booth across from me, completely forgetting she was on the clock. She buried her face in her aproned hands and began to sob—not the theatrical, manipulative crying she used to get her way, but the ragged, hollow sobs of someone realizing their entire foundation was built on sand.
"I don't know how to do this, Sylvia," she wept. "I don't know how to do taxes. I don't know how to balance a checkbook. I can't even get the pilot light on the stove to stay lit. Mom told me pretty girls don't have to worry about that stuff. She told me someone would always take care of me."
"She made you dependent so she could control you," I said gently. "Because if you're helpless, you'll never leave her. But you're twenty-four, Briana. You have hands. You have a brain. And right now, you have an apron."
The cook yelled from the kitchen: *"Table four needs their check, Bri! Move it!"*
Briana sniffled, wiped her cheeks with the rough sleeve of her uniform, and pulled herself up. She looked at me for a long moment.
"Are you going to pay my gas bill?" she asked quietly.
"No," I answered without hesitation. "Kostas allows tenants to sweep the stairwells and clean the laundry room for a fifty-dollar credit. Go talk to him after your shift."
Briana stared at me. The anger that usually followed a rejection didn't materialize. Instead, she took a shaky breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll ask him."
May you like
She turned and hurried toward the counter, clutching the checkpad. For the first time in her life, my sister was running toward labor instead of running away from it.
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