“I was thinking of starting a list.”

Waverly spoke without provocation in the middle of her meal, turning to the person sitting next to her at the counter. “A rotation, of sort. Everyone could sign up for certain days, that way the burden doesn’t fall all onto one person. Bringing things to the Johnsons. You know, groceries, supplies, maybe even just a friendly face to say hello and check in.” She frowned, eyes flicking down to the floor. “It could be stupid. I don’t know.” The sincerity was surprisingly devoid of true care. She was bored and needed a project, and it seemed that she was trapped here forever in this hell, so might as well spruce the place up. Kindness could look good on a town like this at a time like this.

“All I’ll say is this: I think we could all use something uplifting in our lives, no one more than Red Johnson, and what better way to soothe the collective heart than to soothe his?”

She glanced over at her companion, eyes flickering up and down the person’s face. Waverly was a social animal, struck up conversations with anyone who stepped within a ten foot radius of her. Whether she enjoyed them or not was an entirely different question, but that didn’t stop her from speaking to every person she came in contact with until she found someone who didn’t bore her.

However, this particular conversation, this particular day, she was playing a game of hers that had only begun after the McDermotts had moved to Wade, a game that had become a recent obsession––

Who here, in this place, has fucked my wife?

Really, she shouldn’t be eavesdropping on the people around her. But, when everyone is talking about the same thing: it was hard not to tune in to a conversation or two. Juliette usually preferred playing the wallflower at events like these, just trying to avoid any kind of limelight she could. She’s so drawn in to hearing the soccer moms discuss their thoughts on Red’s outburst that she doesn’t notice the others around her. She’s just been standing right in front of the punch bowl for over ten minutes. 

Juliette snaps out of it, and steps out of the way, exclaiming, “Sorry!” to the person behind her. 

When she looks back at the women, one of them makes eye contact, and she has to make a hasty retreat, because her story will be the next topic of conversation. She doesn’t want to know what Frances or Claire think about her own nightmares. 

susie’s  eyes  are  watching  her  homemade  pie  as  the  entire  table  falls  to  the  ground.  the  crashing  noise  causes  her  to  --  quite  literally  --  jump  onto  the  person  next  to  her.  it  takes  only  seconds  for  the  femme  to  realize  she  was  attached  to  the  other  &  her  cheeks  reddened.  susie  took  a  step  away.  “ er-- sorry about that, ”  she  clears  her  throat  &  rubs  her  forearm.  the  femme  tries  her  best  to  keep   eye  contact  away  from  the  mayor.  she  turns  to  the  one  she  was  wrapped  around  just  moments  ago  &  asks :

                                  “ do you think  ...  red’s going to be okay ? ”

People will still come, though. If there’s anything Daphne’s learned, it’s that nothing can keep people away from this place. It’s like some kind of religion, especially to the old men who come, and spend hours chatting at the counter. If they miss a day here, you know there’s something seriously wrong.

Perhaps it’s a good thing that the diner is almost empty, because Red is throwing a fit in the back of the house. Even with the jukebox steadily spewing worn-out tunes, you can hear the owner, and proprietor of the place spewing obscenities. It seems two of his cooks have called out today, leaving him back there trying to take their place. Though, this isn’t the only instance of anger on Red’s part that Daphne’s witness since Josie’s passing. It’s genuinely worrisome. The old man’s not in the best of shape, and all that pressure on his heart? It’ll surely send him to an early grave. 

Maybe that’s what he wants. 

“Fuck!” It rings through the entire restaurant, and Daphne’s sure Red’s gone, and burnt himself or something. She nearly flinches at the sound of it, but tries to regain her composure in short order. 

Looking back down at the other, she offers them a reassuring smile, but it’s surely not much of a comfort to them. “Sorry, what’d ya’ say?” 

While she would normally have completed all her grocery shopping by the mid-morning after dropping her kids to school, PTA meetings regarding the upcoming bake sale had somehow managed to fill the majority of her day. Realizing she would be in need of a few more ingredients for dinner, Kiara decided to make a quick dash to the market, while her kids were still attending their after-school extracurriculars-- that is, gymnastics, soccer, and art, respectively. 

“God, this place is freezing,” Kiara complains bitterly, “I didn’t realize I needed a fucking parka to grab for bread and eggs.”

Usually walking places wasn’t a bad idea, but today it was. Daniel ended up getting too much at the grocery store and was struggling to balance the bags when he saw a familiar face. “I hate to ask, but– could I get a ride?” He smiled apologetically. “Didn’t do the math correctly– I was never very good at numbers.”

date: april 8th time: 08:13 am location: Tyler’s doorstep

She doesn’t want to do this. Nobody in their right mind would want to do this. Who gives someone a ‘welcome to town’ cherry pie two weeks after they’ve moved in? Her mother had insisted, though, and none too gently.

Still, it doesn’t stop Henley from willing the ground to gobble her up, while she crosses the road to reach Tyler’s house. It’s nice, but so are the rest of the houses along the street. If you like picket fences and strict uniformity, that is. “Please don’t be here, please don’t be here, please– hi!” The door swings open, and Henley plasters on a smile. Friendly as it is, there’s still some nervousness pinching it at the corners, making her cheeks strain. 

The silence that settles between them is... awkward. Henley can hear her heart thumping wildly against her ribcage.

She drops her gaze to the steaming pie in her hold, cheeks colouring. Why does her mother own oven mitts with bright pink pigs printed on them? “Uh... My mom asked me to bring this over. To welcome you. To, uh, the neighbourhood... even though you’ve... been here for, um... a while...” Henley trails off, forcing herself to meet her neighbour’s eyes.