If We Ever Meet Again - Ana Huang Page 0,44
out a breath. “It’s going to sound stupid.”
“Try me.”
“Everyone has amazing summer plans. Sammy with NASA, Olivia with CB, you with your design internship—”
“I haven’t submitted my application yet,” Farrah reminded him. She needed to put the finishing touches on her final design. She didn’t love it, but it was good enough. At this point, Farrah was just glad she had something on paper, especially since the deadline was coming up fast.
“You will, and you’ll get it.” Blake’s matter-of-fact confidence eased her nerves somewhat.
“Thanks. You’ll have an amazing summer too.” She rubbed his arm. “Don’t worry.”
“Doing what? At least you guys have something concrete lined up.” Blake broke away and sat on his bed. “All I have is a crazy dream to start a bar.”
“It’s not crazy.” Farrah’s fierce tone surprised herself. “You know what else started as a crazy dream? Apple. Microsoft. Every small business and company in the world. You won’t know whether something is achievable unless you try.”
“There’s so much to think about,” Blake argued. “The leasing, the marketing, the liquor licenses, the food. I don’t have the capital to rent a commercial space, much less hire staff. The expenses are too big for my parents to help with, even if they want to help, which isn’t a guarantee.” He noticed her smile. “What’s so funny?”
“You’re thinking like a business owner already.”
“Thanks, but that doesn’t solve my problem.”
She sat next to him. “Let me ask you this. Is a sports bar what you really want?”
Blake’s face softened. “It is. I don’t want to play sports for a living, but I love the community aspect of it. It brings people together. Well, unless you’re rooting for rival teams. You can watch games at home, but there’s nothing like being surrounded by people as excited as you are about every goal, every point scored. It’s hype.”
Farrah laughed. “I’ll take your word for it.” The only sport she watched was the gymnastics portion of the Olympics every four years. “If this is what you really want, go for it. It may not be as ‘concrete’ as an internship at an established firm, but this is your dream. So many people have started their own businesses, and I guarantee you’re just as capable.”
“You’re right. But I still need to find the money.” Blake shook his head. “Unless I win the lottery, I won’t have enough for rent, much less everything else.”
“There are loans and investors. You’ll figure it out. You’re Blake Ryan.”
“I’m Blake Ryan, football star. Not Blake Ryan, businessman.” His eyes flickered with vulnerability.
Farrah’s heart ached. The world saw Blake the football player. Cocky, athletic, good-looking. The one every girl wanted and every guy wanted to be.
That was how she’d once seen him, too.
While those things may be a part of him, he’d opened up enough for her to see past the winks and irreverent quips to the person deep inside—the boy whose life was defined by something someone else chose for him, who’d been told over and over again his worth was based on his skills with a ball, and who wanted to be loved as a person instead of a commodity.
Tears stung her eyes. “You will be,” Farrah said fiercely. “You’re Blake Ryan, anything you want to be. Businessman. President. CEO of fucking space. If Elon Musk can do it, so can you.”
He laughed softly. “I’m not Elon Musk, either.”
“No.” Farrah pressed her forehead against his. “You’re better. You’re you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Blake didn’t know what good deed he performed in his past life, but it must’ve been a helluva big one because it brought the girl of his dreams into his life.
His chest squeezed every time he remembered the look in Farrah’s eyes when she gave him a much-needed pep talk the other day. The look that told him she meant every word she said, that she believed he could do this. That she believed in him.
No one had ever looked at him like that before.
Blake was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice his mom pick up the Skype call until her voice broke through his consciousness.
“Blake!” Helen’s face filled the screen. She was wearing her old sorority sweatshirt, the one she always wore when she cleaned the house. Blake did a quick mental calculation. It was nine at night in Shanghai, which meant it was seven in the morning in Austin. Trust his mom to be cleaning this early on a Saturday. “How are you, sweetie? I haven’t heard from you in weeks.” Her voice