Page 33 of Bombshell

“Doesn’t matter. She’s ignoring me. She has for months. She chose her family. You know that.” He’d been the one to tell me exactly how it worked. He knows that it doesn’t matter. She’s made her choice—and it wasn’t me.

“Write her a note,” he suggests. “I’ll make sure it gets to her. You’ve got twenty-four hours, right?”

“Yeah…” I hate the hope that surges through me at his suggestion. Cyrus might be the only way to reach her. Somewhere deep down I must have known that. I must have known that when I decided to come here rather than partying with the guys in Nashville on our last night in the states.

He grabs a notebook and a pencil for me. “I need to get to Finance and beg my girlfriend’s forgiveness for fraternizing with the enemy. If you leave it here, I’ll get it to her tonight. You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

“Are you sure?”

“At least, you’ll know. Poppy told me something about girls wanting closure or some shit. I don’t know, but it can’t hurt.” Cyrus claps me on the back. “Good luck, man. Stay safe. Lock the door behind you?”

“Will do,” I say absently. I’m already thinking about the note—about what to say. The truth is that there’s too much to say—too much we left unfinished. I can’t put it all in a note, and it won’t tell me what I need to know: why did she turn her back on me? Why did she choose her family over me? I know what Poppy and Cyrus said about social status and expectations. They said these things happen like I’d gotten a flat tire. I need to hear her say it before I’ll believe it. In the end, I don’t even try to write it all down. I settle for something simpler. A time and a place. The only way we’re going to work through this is together, and if things are going to end, they should end face-to-face.

Maybe Cyrus is right and I was nothing more than a reckless fling to her, but he’s wrong about one thing I realize as I fold up the note and write her name on it. This could hurt. A lot. I just have to hope it doesn’t.

Hennie’s is dead for a Tuesday night. My options were limited when it comes to places that mean something to her and I. There’s no way I’m stepping one foot inside Windfall. Not after what her father did to me. I didn’t feel comfortable asking her to my old dorm room, since I don’t live there anymore. Plus, I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. I only want to know why. Why she let her dad ruin me. Why she turned her back on me. Why she changed her mind about us.

I’ve got a few bucks in my pocket thanks to my last paycheck from the Marines, so I order a plate of hot chicken. Despite the fact that it may be the last time I ever eat the real deal, I can’t find my appetite.

Henrietta herself is here, fussing in the back at the line cooks. I’d met Darcy’s mother the first time I came here with my friends. If she remembers me, she doesn’t say anything. Occasionally, she sweeps through the dining room and casts a look of disapproval at my full plate. But the more time that passes, the less interest I have in the food. I’d arrived early and taken up residence at a corner table. Between the location and the high-backed purple booth, the spot affords as much privacy as we’re likely to get.

Not that it matters, because it’s already twenty minutes past when I asked her to meet me. I can’t bring myself to leave, though. Maybe she’s running late.

“I know I don’t have a lot of customers to scare off, but watching you sit here with a full plate for an hour isn’t doing much for my self-confidence,” a silky voice comments.

I look up into Henrietta’s deep brown eyes. “Sorry, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Is the food for her?” she asks. “Because you aren’t going to impress a girl with cold chicken.”

“No,” I say. “It’s for me—and how do you know I’m waiting for a girl?”

“I recognize when a boy is mooning after a girl,” she says with a soft laugh. “When’s she supposed to be here, honey?”

“Twenty-five minutes ago,” I say after checking my watch.

She clucks. “That’s not a good sign. You want a hot plate?”

I shake my head. I don’t need her charity or her pity. “I guess I should get going.”

“Stay a few minutes. Have you called her?” she suggests. “Maybe she got the time mixed up. I’m going to get you a hot plate of food.”

She’s off before I can stop her. There’s a maternal quality to her voice that reminds me of Francie. It’s the tone she uses when she’s trying to soften the blow of bad news. Francie usually tries to feed me during those times, too. But she actually might have solved my problem.

I’ve been assuming that Cyrus already got the note to Adair. It would be like him to forget or wait until the last minute. He’s never had a striking sense of urgency. Why would he when the world usually comes to him? Pulling out my phone, I shoot him a text.

Almost instantly I see the typing icon. I try to squash the swelling hope building in my chest. Even if he forgot, there’s still time. I have until morning and Hennie’s closes late. I can wait here until he gets it to her. I’ll tell him to mention that I’m waiting.

His words prick the ballooning hope, and I deflate. Maybe she doesn’t know how pressing it is to open it now, but it doesn’t really matter. Poppy will have told her that I’m in town. If Adair can’t even bother to open a note, then there’s no way she’s going to the trouble of coming all the way down here to talk.

Standing up, I smooth out my uniform and drop a few dollars on the table. Not that I made much of a mess. The rest of my cohort are probably already screaming drunk somewhere on Broadway. If I hurry, I can join them and drink away the bitter taste of rejection. I’m halfway to the door when Henrietta catches up with me.

“Giving up?” she asks.

“She’s not coming, and I’ve got a plane to catch.” I force a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, though, and sorry about the trouble.”

Henrietta shakes her head and holds out a to-go bag. “You’re not shipping out without a proper meal. I know they aren’t going to feed you properly,” she insists when I try to refuse. “And this girl? She’s going to regret letting you leave.”

“I doubt it.”