Then they land on me.
He doesn’t smile.
Just clenches his jaw—Why haven’t we been served yet?—and stares like he could burn holes through me.
I look away quickly, a chill rolling down my spine.
Then I turn back to Keith.
“I think we’ve got more to talk about,” I say, quiet but firm. “Please don’t get on that plane tonight. Can we talk more tomorrow? When I’m not waiting on seven tables and trying to process this?”
Keith sighs. Says nothing.
I stare at him, stunned. We’ve spentmonthstalking about marriage. About names for future kids. About the house with the wraparound porch we both liked on Zillow.
And now he’s sitting here like this is some simple, sensible detour. Like my entire life isn’t shifting under my feet.
Another table waves me down.
“Please,” I say again, softer this time. Desperate. Underneath, I’m burning.
Keith shrugs.
“Faith, this is how it’s going to be,” he says casually. “You’ll finish your degree in… whatever. I’ll have the connections. We’ll build a good life. It’s all going to work out.”
My degree is in journalism, I want to scream.
“Now,” he adds, picking up his menu like this is normal, “can you bring me and Dave a bottle of wine—and one to go? We’ll also take the fresh perch.”
I nod.
Then I walk away, shaking.
Before I cry.
Before I scream.
Or do something really reckless—like look at Hunter Holloway again.
2
FAITH
Imean, look—it’s not like I’m a rocket scientist, but I take pride in what I’m learning at Greene State. It’s one of the best colleges in the Midwest. I worked my ass off to get there.
I love to read. Writing and journalism have always been my thing.
Not that I’m about to shout all that across a crowded restaurant at Keith.
I don't need to remind him Greene State calls itselfThe Harvard of the Midwest.(According to the brochure, anyway.)
I head toward the table that’s been waving me down, only for Aunt Miranda to cut me off at the pass.
“Faith, what’s going on at table eighteen? One of them says she didn’t order the fried fish—she says she asked for the fish dinner. Why are you having such trouble remembering the difference between the two?”
My fist clenches. “Seat one? The older woman?”
“Yes,” Aunt Miranda says, already judging.
