Chapter 1 #2
Henry snorted. “I think it’s relatively straightforward,” he said. “You’ve got a massive crush on Griff…” He paused to see if I’d take the bait. I didn’t. “But if you had to make a choice, you’d pick glass over him—”
“Untrue,” I disputed. “Griff would never give me an ultimatum.”
“Okay, then explain why you abandon him when his house goes up in flames, only to run into the hot shop.”
“Because my brain is twisted” was my reply.
Henry kept going. “Your mom is there breaking your inventory because she and your dad—that’s why she speaks in his voice, obviously—are against the Master Plan.”
I grimaced. The Master Plan had been a point of contention in the Barbour family for the past nine months.
I’d applied to college and gotten into not only the University of Pennsylvania—my dad’s alma mater—but also its prestigious Wharton School, their business school.
It had been a huge deal, and I’d worked my ass off and was really proud of myself…
But I didn’t want to go there. Even though I could see myself strolling along Locust Walk to class, I didn’t think college was my next chapter. Or even a chapter.
What I wanted was to blow glass—seriously blow glass.
Golightly Glass was gaining traction, and after months of taking the train from my home in coastal Connecticut to Brooklyn for a Saturday class, I wanted to devote time to really learning and improving my glassblowing with the best instructors in the country.
I’d always dreamed of honing my craft at the renowned Blue Ridge Glass School in the mountains of North Carolina or upstate New York’s Corning Museum of Glass.
Not to mention Pilchuck Glass School in Seattle.
There were even residencies in Monterey, California!
My parents, unfortunately, weren’t on the same page as me. “We’re happy you’ve found a hobby you’re so passionate about,” my mom had said over Christmas break, when I first broached the subject, “but your focus needs to be first and foremost on earning your degree.”
They didn’t understand that, in a way, I did want to pursue business—I wanted to turn Golightly Glass into a real shop someday.
But I couldn’t do that if I wasn’t a good glassblower, so my parents’ reservations didn’t stop me from researching Blue Ridge and Pilchuck and Corning, or having my Brooklyn instructor write a letter of recommendation.
The next time I pitched my Master Plan of pursuing glass over college, I had a full PowerPoint featuring potential courses across the country.
No dice.
As far as my mom and dad knew, I’d accepted my fate—that I’d be moving into a dorm at Penn in two months and studying for an Introduction to Economics midterm come October.
What they didn’t know was I’d been accepted to Blue Ridge’s prestigious yearlong fellowship, and that I’d already paid my deposit, just to hold my spot. I hadn’t given up hope yet.
“That’s accurate,” I told Henry. “I know the MP is a pipe dream in their minds.” I paused. “But what I don’t get is why you were in the dream.”
Henry spun around on his stool. “Well, I’m your business partner,” he said. “Maybe that’s it.”
I guess that made sense. Henry and I curated Golightly Glass’s Instagram together, and we called the workbench his “base of operations.” His mom’s old iMac sat on it, along with an HP printer and an extremely organized filing cabinet containing who knew what.
I blew the glass, Henry handled all the administrative work.
“I admit it is a little funny that you claimed you could shut everything down,” I said, laughing and gesturing at the furnace. “I mean, you don’t pay the gas bill.”
“I shudder to even estimate the gas bill.” Henry’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Though I could end this party if I wanted.”
“How, pray tell?”
He winked.
“Fine.” I sighed. “Be that way.”
“I most definitely will,” he chirped, then checked his watch. “We should probably head out soon.”
I consulted my phone; sure enough, it was nearing four.
Dream dumping and analysis had taken longer than I’d thought.
Henry had arrived in uniform, but I was still wearing my favorite Wildfang maroon jumpsuit.
“We have leftover scones from breakfast,” I said.
“Wait for me in the kitchen while I change?”
GRIFF WAS LEANING AGAINST THE REAR bumper of his new but old (and hideously orange) Chevy Camaro when Henry and I turned in to Wicklow Mansion’s staff parking lot.
He somehow looked both silly and suave in his deep-green pants, standard white button-down, and not-yet-knotted gold tie.
His black apron was casually tossed over one shoulder, but I knew that small embroidered stars outlined Orion across the chest.
(Despite my complete lack of musical talent, my apron featured Lyra.)
The three of us had seasonal jobs as cater-waiters at our town’s event-planning firm, Constellation Catering. Even though it wasn’t quite summer, our boss had texted us last week. Are you available Friday night, 5/10? the message read. All hands on deck for a wedding welcome party!
“Ready?” Henry asked after putting his car in Park.
He wasn’t talking about the party.
Through the window, I watched as Griff locked his phone, slipped it in his pocket, and ran a hand through his chestnut hair before noticing us. His eyes brightened.
Who was he texting? I wondered. Libby?
Libby was Griff’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. They’d broken up when she moved to Arizona last year but kept getting back together. Right now, they were supposedly off, but Griff had gone to Scottsdale for spring break. His tan suited him.
“Get hyped, guys,” Griff said once Henry and I met him at his bumper. “Ellie said it’s a barbecue vibe tonight, so the corn bread’s on the menu!”
As if on cue, Henry and I groaned with intense longing.
Constellation’s corn bread was mouthwatering, always sliced into perfect wedges and served warm with our special honey butter.
Whenever I circulated parties with a full tray, I had to silently scold my stomach for its incessant rumbling.
You couldn’t work a Constellation party without a fortifying snack first.
“Fingers crossed there are leftovers,” Henry said as Griff offered him a fist bump. He left Griff hanging for a beat, an inside joke, then knocked his knuckles against Griff’s. They didn’t have much in common, but they had known each other since kindergarten.
“Audrey.” Griff turned to me, and my stomach flipped the second he smiled. One of his bottom teeth was chipped from a football game. I thought it gave him character.
“Hey.” I smiled back, hoping he couldn’t feel the elevated onetwothree beat of my heart when he wrapped me in a hug.
He smelled like eucalyptus and mint. Our eyes locked after I stepped back, and instead of awkwardly looking away, I made myself hold his hazel gaze.
“You need to pull yourself together, Keeler,” I teased as I touched his limp tie, trying to flirt even though he never seemed to notice.
Griff flirted with everyone. “It’s almost showtime. ”
Griff tilted his head, bemused. “Help me, won’t you?”
I sighed a dramatic sigh, but silently thanked my lucky stars that my father had taught me this particular skill when I was little. My mom had thought it was adorable—me tying my dad’s tie before they went to a wedding or holiday party or out to dinner with friends.
Now that he lived across the Atlantic Ocean, I hadn’t done it in a while.
“How do I look?” Griff asked once I’d finished tightening the tie and dared to subtly smooth the front of his shirt for the finishing touch.
“First class,” I answered as Henry deadpanned, “Like a grunt.”
Griff chuckled, then raised his arm to wave at someone behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see a familiar white Prius slide into a nearby parking spot.
Ellie.
Henry unsteadily shifted from one foot to the other, standing close enough that his hip bone sharply bumped mine—ouch. Griff might’ve been a strapping six foot three, but Henry and I were the exact same height at five eight. “Smooth,” I mumbled.
“Is it just me”—Griff said when the Prius beep-beeped goodbye to its owner—“or does it seem like cameras flash every time she gets out of that car?”
“It’s a Prius,” Henry stated as I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Whenever Ellie locked her car, the headlights lit up like paparazzi cameras. “Not an Escalade.”
Griff looked at Henry blankly.
“It’s like driving a tin can,” I rephrased. “Not rolling up to the red carpet.”
“Mmm.” Griff nodded, not totally getting it. The three of us watched Ellie Hopper sling her canvas tote bag over her shoulder before heading toward us. I absentmindedly plucked a piece of fluff off Henry’s shoulder, and one side of his mouth tipped up amusedly.
“What was that?” he murmured.
I didn’t answer, a little weirded out by myself. Because that was something Ellie used to do all the time.
Like Henry and me, she and I’d met last year, when my family moved to Essex Harbor, Connecticut, halfway through the school year.
There’d been an empty desk next to hers in English, and on a superficial level, I took it because I thought her hair—wavy and blond with light pink streaks—was cool.
It was my conversation starter. “I’ll pass the compliment along to my stylist,” she told me.
“Also known as my sister.” She introduced herself. “I’m Ellie. Ellie Hopper.”
“Audrey Barbour,” I replied, and over the next couple of weeks, we became casual friends.
We didn’t text much or spend a ton of time together outside of school, but Ellie and I sat together at lunch when there was drama between her theater friends, periodically studied at our favorite coffee shop, and exchanged the occasional meme on Instagram.
She’d also introduced me to her boyfriend, Henry.
He and I connected so quickly that I wondered if the three of us would become a true trio.
But it was not meant to be.
After Ellie broke up with Henry last month, she and I weren’t as close (if we were even close in the first place). Our conversations sounded forced, and I couldn’t stop picturing Henry in tears when he’d come over after their breakup.
“Hey, guys,” she said now, pulling her long hair up into a high ponytail. “Did you read Jake and Cassie’s story?”
“Who’re Jake and Cassie?” Griff deadpanned. “Isn’t it Jack and Casey?”
Ellie rolled her eyes. Whenever we worked a wedding, she was the first to find the couple’s website and memorize all the details. Her mom was Constellation’s cofounder, so Ellie was always invested.
I felt a small twinge when Griff winked at Ellie, but reminded myself there wasn’t anything to be jealous of.
Partly because he was still hung up on Libby, and definitely because Ellie wasn’t interested.
“He asked me out once,” she’d told me, “but we have nothing in common. Sports put me to sleep, and he doesn’t know what thespian means. ”
“By the way, congratulations, Henry,” Ellie added after Griff grilled her about the rest of “Jack and Casey’s” menu. “No one deserves that award more than you.”
This past week, our school had announced Henry as this year’s recipient of the Hearne Prize, which everyone summed up as the award for “best human.” Perfect GPA aside, Henry played tennis, peer tutored, and was president of the improv club.
He also did the morning announcements (Principal Ruiz thought he had a nice radio voice).
Henry slid his hands into his pockets, his too-cool-for-school move.
“Thanks, Ellie,” he said, and I watched her self-consciously shift her theatre is my sport tote to her other shoulder.
When they were dating, Henry had always called Ellie “Pinks” for the same streaks that had caught my eye.
Hearing him say “Ellie” had been an adjustment.
“Are your parents proud?” she tried.
A tight nod. “Over the moon.”
Griff and I made eye contact. He looked amused. On a scale of one to ten, his face read, how awkward is this?
I checked my phone; we still had some time, but nevertheless I said: “We should probably head in for briefing.”
“Good call.” Griff followed my lead. “Who’s our shift manager tonight, Ellie?”
Hearing her name made Ellie blink. “Oh, um, Mel.”
“Ah, mighty Mel…” Henry mused.
“… how we’ve missed her so!” I finished, making us both laugh.
Griff chuckled too, but Ellie stood there silently, expression annoyingly unreadable.
Was she thinking about Henry?
It was your choice, I wanted to remind her. He never wanted it to end.
And if Henry and I had anything to do with it, maybe it didn’t have to…