What if he hates me? What if he thinks everything was fake? What if?—?
My phone rings. It’s my brother.
“It’s late, Fab. What’s?—?”
“It’s over, Win.” His voice is hollow. “The restaurant is officially closing.”
The world tilts. “What?”
“We’re out of time. Out of options. It’s done.”
“But I was going to—I can send more money—if we just have a little more time,” I start and stop, start and stop.
“There’s no more, Winnie. We’re too far behind even if you had it, which I know you don’t.” His voice cracks. “We lost. It’s over.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process that my family’s dream—the restaurant that has existed for my whole life—is just … gone. We talk for a few more minutes, but I barely register the words. When we hang up, I’m left staring at my phone through tears.
The unsent confession to Patton stares back at me.
In my emotional haze, I swipe in the wrong direction and delete it.
“No!” I try to recover it, but it’s gone. Along with my courage, apparently.
I could write it again. Should tell him about the bet before the Ball, before it’s too late.
But my brother’s words echo in my head.It’s over.
I’ve failed my family. I’m probably about to fail with Patton, too, when the truth comes out. What’s one more disaster on the pile?
I drag myself to bed, emotionally wrecked. Morning comes too early and too bright.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mindy about goingshopping for the Fireman’s Ball. She comments that I’m winning the bet for sure.
I feel empty.
Winning.Win. Me.
My family’s restaurant is closing. My savings are depleted. I’m keeping secrets from the one person who makes me feel like I’m not drowning.
And everyone thinks I’m winning.
I text back a thumbs up emoji because I can’t form actual words.
Another text comes through. I’m hopeful.
Peony: Coffee before work?
Me: Raincheck?
I can’t face anyone right now. Can’t pretend I’m okay when everything has unraveled.
The guy I almost came clean to messages as well.
Patton: Morning, beautiful. I’m out in the field today, but I’m thinking of you.
Me too. Non-stop and I don’t want anything to change that.
I get ready for work on autopilot, ignoring the wrinkles in my blouse as I pull my hair back. Makeup barely conceals the bags under my eyes, the evidence of the tears that repeatedly wrench themselves free.
