“But we’ve talked about this before,” I say. “You were just trying to help—”
“I know you said it’s fine,” he interrupts. “But it’s not. I didn’t know about the charges or anything else before I went digging—”
“But you had a feeling. Your gut told you he was bad.”
He shakes his head. “All I knew was that he was rich and popular and good-looking. I was jealous. I didn’t want you to be with Tucker because I was scared you’d realize he was better than me.”
“He’s not,” I hurry to say, taking his hand. I make him look up at me so he knows how deeply I mean it. “Not even a little bit.”
But I understand his feelings. They’re feelings I had too. Maybe feelings all piss-poor kids have. Being less. Wanting more. Thinking you’re not good enough for that more. It’s probably a part of why I tried to like Tucker, even though I knew he was wrong for me. I wanted his approval. As if Tucker liking me made me better. If someone worthy approved of me, then that must mean I was worthy too.
Ethan smiles softly, and my heart warms. But then he sits up abruptly, shattering the moment.
“Now that I said that…” He slides the envelope across the table. I pick it up.
Congratulations! You have been accepted…
“It’s from NOLA U,” he says. “I got in.”
I drop the letter so that he won’t see how badly my hands are shaking.
“That’s great!” I say, forcing a cheeriness I don’t feel. If I try hard enough, maybe I can get through this without his noticing I’m completely falling apart inside.
“I got in everywhere, Hope. All the places I applied to.”
But he’s not smiling. A frown turns down his lips, and that same hollowness I felt when we kissed is in his eyes now.
“Then why don’t you seem happy?” I say. “This is amazing news. We need to celebrate!”
He shrugs, looking at his hands. “I still don’t know what I want to do.”
We’re both carefully avoiding the elephant in the room. That I only applied overseas. Not a single place stateside.
“You don’t need to know,” I say. “You can change your major. People do that all the time.”
“I know, but…” His words trail off.
The sound of the dishwasher whirring to life in the kitchen comes into focus. I clear my throat. “So where will you go? Columbia’s your top choice, right? School in New York would be amazing.”
My voice cracks. Dammit. I look away. Tears pool in back of my eyes. I can’t talk. If I talk, I’ll cry.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “New York would be amazing….But I hear they have great movie theaters in France.”
I take in a sharp breath as he slides a different paper across the table. A paper that exactly matches the one in my apron.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, tears filling my eyes.
“I hope you don’t think it’s weird,” Ethan says. “Like I’m following you or something. I just—”
I leap across the table into his lap, shutting him up with a kiss. He laughs against my mouth. “So I guess that means you’re happy, then?”
“So happy.”
Ethan. God.
“You are so perfect,” I say.
He thumbs my tears from my cheeks. “Well, I won’t argue with you about that.”
The bell above the door jingles. I glance up and freeze midsmile, scrambling off of Ethan and straightening my shirt as my boss walks in. “Hi, Jason!” I say brightly. “I was just saying hi to my friend Ethan.”
Jason frowns at Ethan, who sends him a little wave.
“Did you cash out the till yet?” Jason asks.
Ethan gets up and mimes “Call me later” with his hands. I give him a tiny nod.
“I’m just about to show her how to do it.” Casey bounds into the room. “We were cleaning up first.”
“Great. I’ll be in my office. Come and get me when you’re done. I want to make a bank run.”
I nod, and then he’s gone.
Casey pulls a face, and I mime wiping sweat from my brow. Not a great start to work. I’m going to have to be more careful.
Casey tosses me a rag, and I get back to work, piling my tray high with teacups and dessert plates. But I can’t fight the huge smile that blooms over my face. Ethan is coming with me. It’s more than I ever could have dreamed of. It’s all working out.
“Hey, what’s this?” Casey says.
“What?”
I wipe my hands off on my apron and spin around. Casey’s abandoned her cleaning and is examining something close to her face.
“I found it under a teacup,” she says, then flips it over. “Like a tip. And weird. It’s addressed to you.”
She passes it to me, and all the blood drains out of my head. In my hands is a creamy white envelope. An envelope with the name HOPE CALLAHAN printed across the front in slanting Gothic script.