give her the wrong idea. I only want to know why. Why she let her dad ruin me. Why she turned her back on me. Why she changed her mind about us.
I’ve got a few bucks in my pocket thanks to my last paycheck from the Marines, so I order a plate of hot chicken. Despite the fact that it may be the last time I ever eat the real deal, I can’t find my appetite.
Henrietta herself is here, fussing in the back at the line cooks. I’d met Darcy’s mother the first time I came here with my friends. If she remembers me, she doesn’t say anything. Occasionally, she sweeps through the dining room and casts a look of disapproval at my full plate. But the more time that passes, the less interest I have in the food. I’d arrived early and taken up residence at a corner table. Between the location and the high-backed purple booth, the spot affords as much privacy as we’re likely to get.
Not that it matters, because it’s already twenty minutes past when I asked her to meet me. I can’t bring myself to leave, though. Maybe she’s running late.
“I know I don’t have a lot of customers to scare off, but watching you sit here with a full plate for an hour isn’t doing much for my self-confidence,” a silky voice comments.
I look up into Henrietta’s deep brown eyes. “Sorry, I’m waiting for someone.”
“Is the food for her?” she asks. “Because you aren’t going to impress a girl with cold chicken.”
“No,” I say. “It’s for me—and how do you know I’m waiting for a girl?”
“I recognize when a boy is mooning after a girl,” she says with a soft laugh. “When’s she supposed to be here, honey?”
“Twenty-five minutes ago,” I say after checking my watch.
She clucks. “That’s not a good sign. You want a hot plate?”
I shake my head. I don’t need her charity or her pity. “I guess I should get going.”
“Stay a few minutes. Have you called her?” she suggests. “Maybe she got the time mixed up. I’m going to get you a hot plate of food.”
She’s off before I can stop her. There’s a maternal quality to her voice that reminds me of Francie. It’s the tone she uses when she’s trying to soften the blow of bad news. Francie usually tries to feed me during those times, too. But she actually might have solved my problem.
I’ve been assuming that Cyrus already got the note to Adair. It would be like him to forget or wait until the last minute. He’s never had a striking sense of urgency. Why would he when the world usually comes to him? Pulling out my phone, I shoot him a text.
Almost instantly I see the typing icon. I try to squash the swelling hope building in my chest. Even if he forgot, there’s still time. I have until morning and Hennie’s closes late. I can wait here until he gets it to her. I’ll tell him to mention that I’m waiting.
His words prick the ballooning hope, and I deflate. Maybe she doesn’t know how pressing it is to open it now, but it doesn’t really matter. Poppy will have told her that I’m in town. If Adair can’t even bother to open a note, then there’s no way she’s going to the trouble of coming all the way down here to talk.
Standing up, I smooth out my uniform and drop a few dollars on the table. Not that I made much of a mess. The rest of my cohort are probably already screaming drunk somewhere on Broadway. If I hurry, I can join them and drink away the bitter taste of rejection. I’m halfway to the door when Henrietta catches up with me.
“Giving up?” she asks.
“She’s not coming, and I’ve got a plane to catch.” I force a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, though, and sorry about the trouble.”
Henrietta shakes her head and holds out a to-go bag. “You’re not shipping out without a proper meal. I know they aren’t going to feed you properly,” she insists when I try to refuse. “And this girl? She’s going to regret letting you leave.”
“I doubt it.”
“I don’t,” she says, wisdom twinkling in her smile. “Good luck.”
Good luck? Nah. I’m done with luck. I’m done with her. Some things don’t need to be said like goodbyes to ex-girlfriends, and some questions don’t need answers like why you betrayed someone you loved. The answer to that is simple: you can’t