Chapter 1 – Keanna

I stab my fork into a golden, perfectly seasoned French fry that’s covered in melty cheddar and drizzled with ranch. Not the store bought ranch, but the good stuff that only restaurants have. The Main Street Diner has outdone themselves tonight. Why our small town eatery isn’t famously featured on every food TV show is a mystery I’ll never understand. 

I shove the gooey delicious bite in my mouth and close my eyes. “Cheesy fries are the greatest food in the entire world.”

“Agreed,” Jett says, reaching across the table and stabbing one of my fries with his fork. 

I swat his hand away. “Get your own, Mister-I-ordered-regular-fries!”

He laughs and quickly shoves the fry in his mouth so I can’t steal it back. “I’ll buy you more.”

”Don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve already gained five pounds this year…I can’t gain more.”

”You look sexy as hell,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at me before taking a bite of his burger.

I roll my eyes. He always says stuff like that. He’s my husband, so he can’t help it. 

Our four-year-old runs up to our booth, her little hands grabbing the edge of the table. Her hair is dirty blonde with little wavy curls, just like her dad. She lifts one hand, palm up. “Can I have more quarters, Daddy?”

”I think you’ve had enough quarters,” I say, eyeing her arms which are covered in all the stickers she got from the quarter machines. Those little machines with their colorful lights and cartoon graphics all over them have a magical pull over children. This diner must make a ton of money from kids like mine.

”If my little girl wants more quarters, she can have more quarters,” Jett says, winking at her. He retrieves his wallet, takes out a few dollar bills, and flags our waitress to ask for change. Janet is our usual waitress, a mid-fifties widow with one of those amazing southern accents and a love of all things crochet, but today her younger daughter Chelsea is serving us. She brings back a handful of quarters in a paper cup.

”Well aren’t you just getting so big,” she says. “Last time I saw you, you were this little!” She puts a hand out that’s half as tall as our four-year-old. 

“I’m a big girl now,” she says, standing a little straighter before taking the cup of quarters and dashing back across the diner to her beloved sticker machines. It’s a small diner, and we can keep an eye on her the entire time, otherwise there’s no way I’d let her leave our table without us.

”She is just the cutest thing,” Chelsea says.

Jett watches her load the machine with a quarter and smiles. 

“Our little Renesme.”

Chelsea’s eyebrow quirks. It’s the same stunned, awkward look everyone gets when Jett tells someone that our daughter’s name is Renesme.

Luckily, he’s only joking.

“That is not her name,” I say, rolling my eyes.

”Oh, that’s good,” Chelsea says.

“You think you’re so funny,” I tell Jett.

He laughs. “I am funny!”

Chelsea’s brows pull together and then she snaps her fingers. ”Isn’t that the name from Twilight?”

“Yep. You let your husband watch one movie series with you and he never lets it go.”

”That movie was crazy,” he says. “She named her kid Renesme!” He smacks his palm on his leg as he bursts out laughing. “Renesme!”

“The rest of the story was good,” I argue, waving bye to Chelsea as she moves to take care of the new customers who just walked in. ”I mean, yeah I’m glad we didn’t name our daughter after our mothers, but the story was still good.”

”Becca and Bayleigh,” Jett says, pressing his lips together in thought. “Beckleigh… Bayca…”

”Beckleigh isn’t terrible actually…” I say. “It’s kind of cute but a little weird to say.”

He blows a raspberry. “Yes it is terrible.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter because that’s not her name.”

He nods. “Unlike Bella Cullen, we actually know how to name a child.”

I nod. “Now we just need to work on not spoiling her by giving her everything she wants all the time.”

He pretends to be offended. “I like giving her everything she wants all the time.”

I put my hands on my hips but I’m sitting in the diner booth so it doesn’t have the same effect as if I were standing. “I do, too, but we want to raise a good, well-adjusted kid, not a spoiled brat.”

”I give you everything you want,” he says, stealing another one of my cheese fries. “And you’re not a spoiled brat.”

”Maybe I am,” I say with a grin. His lips quirk up at the sides.

”Well, you’re my spoiled brat.”

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