Through a yawn, I say, “Maybe I should have planned for next week.” At this point, I’ve been awake for thirty-six hours, and I’m pretty sure I could sleep for a week straight.
“You could reschedule,” she suggests.
“It’s tempting, but I’m really excited to see Dev.”
“Dev! You guys were the sweetest friends growing up.”
“You could come,” I say. “I’m sure Mara would babysit, and you can wear pants without a drawstring.”
“No.” She says it like it’s its own sentence. After a beat, she adds, “Though I am mildly intrigued by the idea of a forty year old hanging out with kids in their early thirties. Ripe for comedy.”
“Excuse me, firstyou’rein your thirties. You aren’t forty for another year. And second” —I stop what I’m doing now to look at her— “kids?!”
She grins, knowing she hit her mark.
“Ugh, you are so annoying,” I say, though I’m grinning when she hands me the last pan to wash.
So Gia has a sense of humor.
She glances casually at me. “I saw Dev at Maddy’s a few weeks ago. He’s filled out prett-ynicely,” she says. “And thatvoice. Hearing him talk is like swimming in the darkest molasses, silky and smooth.”
I lift my eyebrows. “When did you get so poetic?”
She shrugs. “It’s prose, not poetry.”
“Okay, when’d you get so prosaic?”
“That’s insulting.”
Chuckling, I think about Dev again. Time and distance have reduced our friendship to the kind where we might not speak for months, then randomly text each other every day for a week. In fact, a meme popped up from him as I was getting gas outside Louisville early this morning. It felt like a lifeline, so I let it spill that I was on my way to Blue Ridge.
Tomorrow will be the first time we’ll be in the same room in years. But growing up, I considered him my best friend. He never asked too many questions, and he was always smiling, always in a good mood.
And he was always good-looking. The selfies he’s sent me over the years tell me Gia’s right—he’s only gotten better with age.
Suddenly, going out tomorrow night sounds much better than catching up on sleep.
CHAPTER 8
SAWYER
The next day,when I walk into Jolly Jalapeño, I scan the place for my friends. I nearly talked myself out of coming, Will’s warning echoing in my mind.
It doesn’t help that I found myself wandering down the Blue Hall and stopping at Brie’s classroom no fewer than eight times today.
On my last visit, her eyes met mine. She smiled at the class, gave them a quick task, and stepped out into the hallway.
Through gritted teeth, she said, “If you’re going to micromanage me, do it already. You popping up every forty minutes is disruptive.”
I nearly cracked a molar as I walked away. I didn’t return for the rest of the day, which I take as a win. Even if the final bell rang fifteen minutes later.
Still, I already told Ethan and Rich I’d meet them, so here I am.
Jolly Jalapeño is a Korean-Mexican restaurant that’s only a few years old, but it feels like it’s been the heart of this town forever. Each weeknight features a differentdraw for the crowds, and it has a particular ambiance that would be tacky anywhere else.
A long, sunburnt orange bar takes up the back wall facing the front door. To my right is a short narrow stage beneath the large front window. All the rest of the available wall space is adorned with traditional Korean artwork and lined by booths.
The open space in the center is inelegantly furnished with mismatched plastic card tables and folding chairs, which were supposed to be temporary, but when the regulars got wind of the change there was small-town mayhem. People, apparently, love how easily they can be rearranged or moved out of the way.
