Because of their ferocious nature during the Battle of Belleau Wood, the Marines were called Dogs from Hell by the German soldiers who fought against them. The Marines proudly embraced the moniker. Soon, Devil Dog became a nickname for all Marines.

Upon retiring from the Marine Corps, George opened the Devil Dog Diner. His entire staff was an assembly of veterans who had chosen to serve meals after retiring from serving their country.

I initially favored the restaurant because they bought fresh local produce and used organic meats, fruits, and vegetables in making their meals. Knowingly introducing chemicals into my body wasn’t something I would ever do.

I later grew to admire George, his staff, and his way of conducting business. He wasn’t getting rich running the deli, but he gave back to the community, nonetheless. On the last Sunday of every month, he held The Flapjack Flashback, an all-day pancake extravaganza and fundraiser.

Pancakes, eggs, and a side of meat were all that was available during the fundraiser, and they were sold until the restaurant closed at ten o’ clock at night. For that day, breakfast was priced at a dollar and fifty cents per plate. Most of the customers left huge tips, but George didn’t expect it. He said he wanted to turn back the clock to a time when breakfast was affordable.

His revenue for the day went to charity. On that same day, his employees – at their own insistence – refused to be paid. State law didn’t allow them to work for free, so they simply donated their wages right along with George’s revenue to the chosen charity for the month.

In support of him, his workers, and the restaurant’s way of conducting business, I ate at his establishment more than I ate at home. In many respects, the diner was my home.

I sucked a cream cheese remnant from the tip of my finger. I would have never guessed anything could have made a grilled chicken sandwich taste better, but the cream cheese, grilled jalapenos, and peach jam sure did a good job of it. I pushed my plate to the far side of the table and grinned a toothy grin. “That was awesome.”

George’s eyebrows raised. “How awesome?”

“There aren’t levels of awesome,” I explained. “Acceptance of foodstuffs is explained using the following expressions: okay, good, great, fantastic, and awesome. Awesome is the pinnacle of goodness.”

While searching my face for an answer, he reached for my empty plate. “Out of every sandwich you’ve eaten here, how does it rate?”

“For someone who hates repeating himself, you sure don’t mind asking others to do it, do you?” I asked jokingly. “I said it was awesome. So, for me, it’s the number one sandwich.”

“Good.” He flashed a quick smile. “We’ll call it The Abby.”

Having the sandwich named after me would be as awesome as the sandwich itself. “Get outta here,” I shouted excitedly. “Seriously?”

“If it’s your number one, that’s what we’re going to call it.”

“As soon as it’s on the menu, I’ll promote it to everyone I know,” I blurted.

He let out a laugh as he topped off my iced tea. “This place is far too small to have all of San Diego County in here trying to order the same sandwich. Maybe just tell the people in your meeting. How’s that?”

“Right now, there’s only six people in it. That’s if everyone comes, and they don’t all come at once,” I said.

“I know you’ve come to enjoy it, but that’s one meeting I wished was empty.”

The meeting he spoke of was a cancer support group. As much as I enjoyed doing what I could to help others cope with the emotions that came with being diagnosed – and with surviving – I wished the same thing. Despite that wish, I’d seen many faces come and go over the years.

“Are you walking, riding, running, or driving?” he asked.

“Riding,” I said.

He nodded toward the clock. “You better get to peddling.”

I glanced over my shoulder. It was fifteen before one, and the meeting started at one. Shocked at how much time had passed, I reached into my purse and fumbled to find my wallet. “I really need to start wearing a watch,” I murmured.

“Get to your meeting,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The sandwich isn’t on the menu yet. I can’t charge you for it.”

“Thank you,” I blurted. I took off in a dead run for the door. As I yanked it open, I shouted over my shoulder. “Love you, George.”

“Love you, too, Abby,” he said.

Love. It was the one thing that was missing from my life. I loved many people and I made it a point to tell them so. There was an equal amount of people who loved me in return.

But. I wasn’t in love.

For love to be reciprocal, I needed to feel it was genuine. I was convinced finding sincerity was impossible. It seemed everyone who had any interest in me was either after notoriety or money. It was the price I had to pay, I suppose, for being successful.

A price I wasn’t always convinced was worth the reward.