I do the math in my head. “I’d have to defer NSC.”
“One semester. That’s all.”
“I’d need to afford rent.”
He hesitates. “I could talk to the curator about their spare room. Or…”
I look up sharply. “Or?”
He clears his throat. “Or you could live with me.”
The diner disappears. The clink of cutlery, the fry cook calling out orders—all gone.
“Live with you?” I whisper.
“It’s a six-bedroom townhouse. You'd have so much space, we'd hardly know we’re under the same roof.”
“Except we would,” I whisper.
“You're right. I couldn't share a space with you without being all over you. Still, the offer stands.”
My chest tightens as I nod. “So, say I were to move in with you, what happens after your Houston rotation? When you leave for Yale?”
He exhales. "That’s the other thing I wanted to ask. Have you ever thought about schools out east?"
My stomach drops. "Wait—what? Jordan—”
“Just hear me out. Yale has an amazing art program. So does NYU. Or UConn. I know they’re far from home, but—"
"Jordan. Are you being serious?"
"Yes. I know it’s a lot. But I also know you could thrive anywhere. You just need the right doors opened."
"Listen, those schools cost more than my dad and I make in two years. I can’t just decide to go there," I swallow hard. "That’s not how it works for people like me."
"There are scholarships—"
"And I might not get one."
"Yes, you would—"
"You don't know that!" The words come out sharper than I mean them to. A couple at the next booth glances over.
I heave out a breath, then continue in a hushed tone. "Jordan, moving to Houston for an art internship is one thing—that's fourmonths, I could maybe swing that. But Yale? That's... that'syourworld, not mine."
He flinches and I immediately feel like a heel.
"I—I didn't mean it in an unkind way."
"I know, baby." But he looks wounded anyway.
We sit in silence for a moment. The waitress refills our water. I trace patterns on the condensation dripping down the glass.
"Sabrina." .
I look up.
"Do you want me?" he asks.
