By her twentieth birthday, there are a few things Valarie Ricci knows for certain.
She knows that her waitressing job barely covers the costs of living out of a beat up old van. She knows she's stuck in the dead end hometown her high school friends...
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On the night of Valarie's twentieth birthday, a ghost stepped out of the October rain and into the stale fluorescent light of the sleepy truck stop diner. The sharp jingle of the door swinging open cut through the sound of sleet drumming against the diner's windows and the late-night oldies station softly playing from the overhead speaker system.
A reflexive smile plastered itself over Valarie's face, one hand already reaching for the still-warm coffee pot stashed atop the stainless steel serving bar. Despite approaching hour five of her graveyard shift, Valarie's smile remained easy—genuine, even. She didn't have to force the warmth into her voice when she began to chirp out her usual greeting, her charcoal eyes swinging up to the diner's newest patron, "How are—?"
Valarie's smile dropped dead. A chill froze all the air in her lungs, like the newcomer had allowed the storm outside to follow her in.
The ghost's posture remained perfect, pin-straight, as her hazel eyes took in the diner's cheap linoleum flooring, faux-retro design, and gaudy purple and yellow colour scheme with a cool disinterest. The ice in her gaze transplanted Valarie to a different time and place, to the saw-toothed memory of being looked through like she had ceased to exist entirely.
Because she was a coward, Valarie dropped her gaze down to the coffee pot she was gripping too tightly, her mind already kicking into overdrive. She forced herself to release the pot's handle and wiped her suddenly clammy hands on the mustard coloured apron tied around her waist. Not knowing what else to do, she grabbed a clean mug from under the serving bar, dumped in a generous scoop of sugar, and shakily poured in the stale coffee.
She placed the steaming mug on the bar in front of her, cleared her throat so her voice wouldn't shake, and said, "Hi, Alice." The two simple words ignited a flurry of emotion low in her stomach: fear, excitement, shock all bleeding into each other. Valarie was only sure of the palpable, traitorous sense of relief flooding through her—even as she struggled to control the whirlwind of everything else.
Alice cautiously planted herself on the stool across from Valarie, moving as if she were afraid to scare her away. She wore a rain jacket that cost more than Valarie could make in three weeks of overnight shifts and black sweatpants swallowed her long, lean legs. Valarie's eyes instinctively travelled down to Alice's hands, which were hidden by her coat sleeves, probably to hide the raw, peeling skin around her knuckles. Old habits, she thought.
Steeling herself, she finally dragged her eyes up to Alice's face, only to find that Alice's gaze was already on her, expectant. Their eyes locked and any trace of disinterest disappeared completely from Alice's expression as she stared at Valarie like she was the last person on Earth. Valarie's breath hitched, her stomach twisting itself into a giant knot.
Fuck.
"Hi, Valarie," Alice said. As always, she didn't rush through the name, taking her time with every syllable. Val-a-rie. Never Val or Vee or anything that could ever make her less. It had been two years since she had last heard Alice say her name.
