Chapter 14 #2
I look down at the food options, but I’m not reading it. The kitchen doors swing open and I can’t help but look. I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of where I am. Of which side I’m on.
Jax reaches for my hand and I flinch before I can stop myself. “Jax.”
He pulls back just as the waitress arrives.
“What can I get you tonight?” she asks, polite, professional, her eyes moving between us with quiet curiosity.
“I’ll take a whiskey,” Jax says.
She looks at him frowning.
“I’m eighteen,” he adds.
Her expression doesn’t change. “Of course.”
“And for you?” she asks me.
“Water,” I say.
She nods, jotting it down. “Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?”
Jax glances at me. “Give us a minute.”
“Of course.” She steps away.
I look at him.
“We can just order everything,” Jax says. “You don’t have to choose.”
I blink. “What? Jax—no.” My voice cracks.
“It’s fine, Sisk.”
“It is not fine.” My voice rises before I can stop it. I close the menu just as the waitress returns.
“Are we ready?” she asks.
Jax doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’ll take the ribeye, medium. And the fries—the loaded ones. Bring two.”
“And for you?” the waitress asks.
“I’ll have the grilled chicken,” I say quickly. “Please.”
“Of course.” She gathers the menus and leaves.
I look back at him. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“We can just order everything.”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
“What happens when I can’t finish it? You throw it away? Pretend it never existed while people in the back are working for it? Do you even think about that? People outside are starving.”
He winces. Not offended—confused as if he’s never had to consider the world that way.
“I… didn’t think of that.”
“Exactly.”
He reaches for my hand again and I pull away.
“We are from completely different worlds,” I whisper. “You get that, right?”
“So?” he says. “I don’t care.”
“I do.”
His voice lowers. “I like you.”
The words hit me like a bruise forming.
“Don’t,” I breathe. “Don’t say that.”
“I do.”
“Why?” My voice trembles. “Because I’m easy to impress? I’m not a charity case.”
“I don’t think that—”
“Jax, let’s be honest. I’m not the girl you introduce to your parents, I’m the girl you hide. The girl you discard when it’s time to be serious.”
His face fractures. “That’s not happening.”
“Sure.”
The food arrives and I want to devour it all. Instead, I take careful bites, matching his pace like I belong here. I don’t—not even close—and it’s not just because of my clothes or how I hold the fork. It’s everything else.
Jax leans back slightly, already reaching for the fries. “These are insane,” he says, like he’s impressed, like this was a good idea. I hum in agreement, even though I haven’t really tasted them yet.
He takes another bite, this time with a fork. I don’t think about it at first. I just reach for one, eat it the way I always have. Then I notice the fork in his hand, the way he barely makes a mess. I look down at my fingers, already slick with sauce. Shame creeps up my neck.
I grab a napkin, wiping my hands too quickly. I reach for the fork, adjusting my grip, trying to match him.
He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.
“These are really that good!” he says, watching me now.
“Yeah,” I say. “They are.”
I take a bite with the fork. It’s not the same.
He smiles, satisfied, like he got it right. He thinks this is working. I nod again, because it’s easier than explaining.
He sips his whiskey and his shoulders dip a little, his voice slowly loosening as he starts to talk more, about nothing really, about the park we passed and how his family might buy it, about things that feel far away from this table, from this place.
I nod when I’m supposed to. I take small bites and count them without meaning to.
The kitchen doors swing open again and I force myself to keep my eyes on my plate, on the fork in my hand, on the way I’m holding it like I’ve always done this.
I finish before Jax does, even though I barely ate. I set the fork down and push the plate slightly away from me.
He looks up. “Already?”
I nod.
“Do you want to stop and say hi to your dad? I’m sure he’d—”
“No.” It comes out too fast.
He pauses. “You sure? That was part of the plan.”
“Can we go?”
He looks at me, then he reaches for his glass and downs the rest of the whiskey in one go. “Yeah,” he says, setting it down. “You okay?” he asks.
“I’m tired.” I say, already getting up.
He doesn’t push it, he simply pulls a few bills from his wallet and lowers them on the table without looking, already stepping away.
I glance down. It’s too much. More than the meal. Way more.
He doesn’t wait for change and when I look back at him, he’s already walking toward the door like it doesn’t even matter.
Before we get back in the car, Jax grabs my hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say too quickly. “It was good. Really. I just—” I shrug. “Long day.”
He watches me, not convinced.
“I’m fine,” I add.
“If you say so.”
As soon as we get in the car, Ronny hands Jax a white box and Jax gives it to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
He leans back slightly, a hint of a smile. “You never asked what my favorite food is.”
I frown a little. “Okay…”
“Open it.”
I lift the lid to reveal a slice of chocolate cake, its thick frosting layered between soft crumbs. The edges are uneven, like it was cut in a rush, and across the top, a single word is written in white icing: Congrats.
My throat tightens. “You can’t say that.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“I don’t know if I got in.”
“You did.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know what I saw.”
“You don’t know ballet,” I snap.
“I don’t need to,” he shoots back. “There’s no way anyone does that better than you did.”
I shut the box. “Stop.”
“What?”
“You need to stop.” My voice shakes. “No more surprises. No more gifts. No more food. No more car trips.”
Ronny slips out of the car, closing the door quietly behind him.
Jax moves closer, his fingers brushing my cheek, seeing the tears before I do.
“Sisk. I’m sorry. I thought you’d like it.”
“Please, Jax,” I say, my voice breaking now. “Take me home.”
He swallows. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
I turn toward the window so he won’t see me fall apart. The drive is too long to hold it in, but I manage to.
He drops me off at my building, and I make it to the rooftop before my knees give out.
I sink onto the gravel, tears carving down my face, sugar smearing on my lips because I couldn’t make myself throw the cake away.
Stupid, amazing cake. But that’s not why I’m crying.
The entire day barrels through me at once—every hope, every mistake, every almost. It isn’t not getting into the academy that scares me.
It’s the opposite. It’s that I might actually get in, and leaving might mean walking away from the boy I shouldn’t want, but I do. Really, stupidly, recklessly do.