Andre
If Faith joins the circus, I’ll follow her. They must need cooks, right? I wince and dice an onion in the diner kitchen, surrounded by shiny stainless steel and the hum of industrial refrigerators.
I like it here. I like my crisp white tunic and I like Rodrigo and Paisley, my underlings. I doubt the circus cooks have this much elbow room—nor fresh ingredients delivered by the local greengrocer each morning. Right now, I’ve got it made.
And since I own the Rockin’ Rockpool diner, I can do whatever the hell I want. I can change the menu; I can stay open late if business is good. I can keep the best table permanently reserved, just in case Faith comes in.
She’s never asked me about that. Did she even notice?
And… would I give this all up if she joined the circus? Pack it all in just to stay near her?
In a heartbeat. Shit.
I shake my head and keep chopping, prepping stainless steel bowls of fresh vegetables, while a country band croons over the radio. It’s the mid-afternoon lull between the lunch rush and dinner crowd, and normally this is when I get in the zone.
Just me, the rhythmic thud of my knife, and the cool breeze from the air conditioning. In the kitchen, I’m in control. The master of my tiny universe.
But today, I’m frazzled. My thoughts keep jangling around my skull, clashing together and giving me a headache. Thoughts like: the aching sadness of Faith’s Dear Hattie letter, and the wistful way she talked about leaving.
Thoughts of the change that came over her when I confessed I wanted her too—the way she stood taller, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Suddenly confident. The teasing smile she gave me on the clifftop, and the way it sent a bolt of heat through my gut.
Have I made her miserable all this time by holding back?
And… will she torture me now she knows?
Christ. I hope so.
My groan echoes around the metal kitchen, and I pause to rub the back of my wrist against my forehead.
“All good?” Rodrigo stands guard over a bubbling saucepan, hips swinging in his checkered pants. My sous-chef is even younger than Faith, and whatever music we have on, he finds a way to dance.
“All good.”
The head waitress Paisley leans over the counter that separates the kitchen from the diner, smirking when she sees Rodrigo’s moves.
“All quiet out here. You want me to put in that meat order?”
“Sure.”
It should be enough to distract me, working here. There are a hundred things I need to think of, constant draws on my attention, and the diner usually demands my full focus.
But today…
I blink hard, willing away the image of Faith’s teeth sinking into her plush, pink lip. The memory of her sweet voice, saying: What if I try my very, very hardest and it’s not enough? What if I still can’t wait?
Today, I’m white–knuckling through until closing time.
I suck in a deep breath, my body feverish under my clothes, and grab another onion.
* * *
Years. I’ve told her to wait for years. Will I survive that long? Seems impossible.
The walk home from the diner takes me half as long as usual, my agitated steps thudding against the sidewalk. Stars throb overhead in an ink black sky, and the windows of Sweet Cherry Cove glow against the night, shadows moving past drawn curtains as folks go about their lives.
Christ. My heart’s pounding hard enough to crack a rib. Has been for hours.
I’ve been wound tight by Faith before—of course I have. Every second in her presence over the last four years has been a test of my restraint. Every glimpse of her dark red hair, each time I heard her laugh…
Torture. The sweetest torture.
But I stayed in control. Kept an iron grip on my impulses, and over time, the constant need I felt for her fell dormant. Like a slumbering beast in my rib cage, snoozing through hibernation.
It was always there, though. Patient. Waiting.
Now it’s awake and roaring, rattling my bones. I want that girl so badly.
Each step closer to home makes my skin flush hotter under my clothes. Is she still awake? Will I see her shape through her bedroom window? Does she really touch herself and think of me? What do I do in her dreams?
When I reach our terraced houses, my common sense says: go home. Instead, I pull out my cell phone and bring up her name, dialing right there from the sidewalk.
Faith answers after two rings. “Andre?” She sounds breathless, and so pleased to hear from me. Can’t let that go to my head. “What is it? Do you want to come up?”
Do I want to come up? More than anything in the whole goddamn world.
But there are no prizes for guessing what will happen if I set foot in Faith’s bedroom, and I told her she had years left to decide about us. Years.
Digging the heel of one palm into my eye, I summon up the last shreds of my self control. “No,” I grate out, my voice so rough in the quiet night. The waves are soft against the beach behind me. “I won’t come up. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
Faith hums, and she sounds so pleased. Like the cat who got the cream.
Long gone is the broken, exhausted girl from earlier. My heartsick neighbor with her hopeless crush. Why the hell did I leave Faith wondering for so long? Why did I let her feel unwanted?
“Are you sure?” Faith teases, and there’s the faint rustle of bedclothes as she rolls over. “It’s pretty lonely up here. And I was just thinking about you.”
Oh, yeah: this is why. Because I knew, somewhere deep in my caveman brain, that once we opened this door, we wouldn’t be able to close it again. The second I told Faith how I felt, a clock would start ticking.
And it’s ticking alright. Each desperate boom of my heart counts down another second until I break.
Years? Seriously?
What was I thinking?
There’s a faint creak of bed springs, a moment’s pause with nothing but her steady breaths into the phone, then Faith’s bedroom curtains twitch aside. Light spills onto the sidewalk, and she tilts her head up there, silhouetted against the glow. Is she smiling? I can’t make out her expression.
“You look different,” Faith says, and I can’t take my eyes off her. Can’t blink. The salt air stings, but I don’t care.
“I feel different.”
“Oh?”
“I feel… fucking awful, Faith.”
Her soft laugh raises goosebumps on my arms, and despite my clawing agitation, I smirk up at her. This is ridiculous, and we both know it.
“You’re not enjoying the waiting game, Andre?”
No. Each minute feels like an hour.
“Turns out ‘years’ is a long time.”
“How about a negotiation?”
Well, why not? As long as I give her time to mull it over, time to change her mind, would shortening the time frame be so bad? Like Faith said earlier: she’s a grown woman. She can make her own choices, and if she chooses me… I’ll simply make sure I earn her. That I’m good enough for this angel.
“Six months,” I say.
“Five minutes,” Faith returns. Ha.
“One month.”
“One hour.”
“One night.”
Faith inhales sharply, and I realize what I’ve offered: tomorrow. My skull throbs with a headache, but I don’t take it back.
Here it is: the end of my rope.
“Deal,” she says softly. “Don’t you dare change your mind, Andre Silva.”
Not possible. “Tomorrow,” I tell her, and it feels like an oath.