"I remember everything about you." He says it simply, like it's a fact.
For a moment, we just sit there, hands linked across the table, and I feel... settled. Like this—him and me, greasy diner food, nowhere special—this is enough.
Then his thumb traces circles on my palm, and I see something shift in his expression.
"I finally spoke to the Houston office today."
My stomach tenses into knots. I set my milkshake down slowly, my appetite suddenly disappearing. "You did?"
He nods. "I told them when to expect me to arrive."
"When are you leaving?" I brace myself.Please don’t say soon.
“Six weeks from now.”
I exhale in a rush. “Six?”
“I cashed in a favor. Arrin Muller—the CFO in Houston—he’ll hold down the fort until I get there.”
Six weeks. Enough to watch him turn twenty-four. Enough to walk across that graduation stage and see his stupidly proud smile in the crowd.
“You're staying for my graduation,” I whisper. “And your birthday.”
He reaches for my other hand, covering both with his. “Of course I am. I wouldn't miss either. Besides…” He leans in, voice low. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be on my birthday than inside you.”
My cheeks flame. “Jordan—”
“Just saying what we’re both thinking.” He gives me a wicked grin, but it fades quickly. “Now… about Houston.”
My heart drops again. The reality sinks back in.
“It’s a four-month rotation. After that, I go straight to Yale.”
Yale. Of course. 2600 air miles from Henderson. Or a forty hour drive. And with Jordan juggling between business school and preparing to head a century old multibillion dollar company. While I try to find my feet as an Art History freshman at Nevada State College.
Yeah, we stand no chance.
I nod, wearing a brave smile when really I'm calculating how long it'll take us to forget each other. "It's alright Jordan. It's bound to happen. The distance between you and me isn't just in our backgrounds. It's our careers too. Let's just see how it goes. Sink or swim, right?"
He takes a breath. "No. It's not okay. Why leave things to chance when we can change courses?"
"What do you mean?"
"Actually, there's something I wanted to run by you." He takes a breath. "You know how you've been talking about wanting to work in art and photography? Real photography, not just yearbook stuff?"
I nod slowly.
"There's this art gallery in Houston. Small, independent and owned by a friend of a friend. They're always looking for interns." He's watching my face carefully. "Photography, curation, exhibition installation. The kind of hands-on experience you can't get in a college classroom."
My heart skips. "Jordan—"
"It's a paid position, too, " he forges on. Not a whole lot, but enough to live on. And I already asked—they'd be happy to interview you."
I stare at him. "You... you asked if they'd take me?"
"Well, not you, specifically, but if they'd take someone with an interest in the field. It'd look amazing on your resume."
For a moment, I can't breathe. Because no one's ever done this—seen what I want—what I've been too afraid to want—and actively tried to help me get it.
