Chapter 11
The desert blurs past us in streaks of red and gold. The sun's low, painting the horizon in fire.
Jordan’s hand rests on my thigh, thumb stroking circles. “So. On a scale from sinful to downright unholy—how unhealthy do you want your dinner?”
My stomach growls in response. “Filthy. Shame me.”
He grins and pulls into a beat-up roadside diner ten minutes out of town. Mima's Diner with its cracked vinyl seats, sticky menus, and flickering neon sign, is perfect.
We slide into a corner booth. A plump waitress brings us menus, but Jordan already knows what he wants.
"Two burgers, large fries, and milkshakes," he says. "Banana for her, chocolate for me."
The waitress smiles and shuffles away.
I reach across the table for his hand. "You remember my junk food order."
"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.
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 four months, I could maybe swing that. But Yale? That's... that's your world, 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.
The question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"
"Do you want me?" he repeats. "Forget logistics, forget money, forget what's practical. Do you want to be with me?"
"That's not fair."
"It's not meant to be." He leans forward, and there's something raw in his eyes. "Because here's the thing. I love you. I'm in love with you. You're not a hobby I picked up in Nevada. You're not some phase I'm going through. You're important to me, Sabrina. And I'm making space in my life for you."
He reaches across the table, catches my hand.
"So I'm asking: are you willing to make space for me too? Even if it's scary? Even if it means changing your plans?"
Tears prick at my eyes. Damn him. Damn him for being right, for cutting through all my excuses, for making this about us instead of about logistics.
"I'm terrified," I whisper.
"I know."
"This is insane—"
"I know."
"But what if I can't afford Yale? What if I hate it? What if—"
"We'll figure it out," he says simply. "Together."
Together. That word cracks something open in me. Because I do want him. I want the impossible. I want to believe that we’re not too different. That we’re not on borrowed time.
But wanting and having are two different things. And right now, I’m terrified.
"Open your heart to me a little more, Sabrina." He coaxes. "Come with me."
"I—I…look, I need time," I whisper.
Relief flickers in his eyes. "Of course. I'll wait."
But I already know I'm going to say yes.
We finish our food in relative quiet. Not uncomfortable—just heavy. Full of possibilities. Of goodbyes that might not come. Of choices we haven’t made yet.
Outside in the dark parking lot, Jordan pulls me into his arms. "Thank you," he murmurs into my hair.
I wrap my arms around him. "For what?"
"For not running screaming."
I laugh softly. "Well, the night’s still young."
He kisses the top of my head, then opens my door before walking around to the driver’s side. The engine purrs to life, and he goes through his ritual: adjusting the heat, mirrors, wheel. Jordan Farrington, careful and deliberate, even when everything feels like it’s unraveling.
Then I remember. "Hey, I need to tell you something."
"Oh, right. You said so earlier. What is it, baby?"
I take a breath. "My dad wants you over for dinner."
He freezes. "What?"
"Tomorrow night. Mom’s cooking. Trust me when I say it's an experience you don’t want to miss."
"Your parents know about us? I thought you said they didn't—"
"My dad figured it out."
Slowly, Jordan puts the car back into park and kills the engine. His eyes search mine, and I can tell he’s trying to mask it, but he’s rattled. I can see the flickers of panic beneath his calm exterior.
"And he wants to meet me?"
I roll my eyes. "He's already met you, silly."
Exactly. As his boss. Not as his daughter's boyfriend.
I nod. "True, which means he's willing to trust you with me."
"Or that he wants to bury me in your backyard." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. He runs both hands through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. "Christ. Your parents must think I'm the creep who’s been sneaking around with his daughter.”
“We haven’t been sneaking,” I lie.
“Sabrina.”
I sigh. “Okay. Light sneaking.”
He keeps his eyes on mine, even though I can see how much it costs him. "Your father is going to look at me and see a predator."
What? "Jordan—" I unbuckle my seatbelt.
"What are you doing?"
Instead of answering, I slide across the center console and climb into his lap. His eyes go wide as I settle there, my knees bracketing his thighs.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to touch me.
“You’re not a predator,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. "You didn’t take advantage of me, Jordan. You protected me."
"Did I? Or did I just lie to myself so I could fall for you anyway?"
"You waited," I roll my hips once, and feel his length jump beneath me. "You held the line even when I didn’t. I tried everything. I begged, I cried, I even showed up to your house in nothing but a coat."