Page 17 of The Last Special Thing

CHAPTER EIGHT

Afew days later, Amelia slid across the table from Weston at Lilian's Cafe. They could go to only a handful of restaurants without leaving town, and Lilian's was her favorite. She had thought she would be ten minutes late and didn’t bother to update Weston. The clock on the wall ticked closer to twenty minutes past the hour, but she didn’t care.

Weston’s eyes were fixed on the menu, even though he got the same thing every time they came.

“Couldn’t bother to shower?” he asked without lifting his eyes.

Amelia’s neck prickled with sweat, and the strip of bra underneath her boobs was damp. Her morning pilates had kicked her ass. She swore Lauren took sick pleasure in Amelia trembling through the plank position. Lauren had corrected her three times through it, even though she held straighter than anyone else in class.

“Did you want me to be even later?” she asked.

He didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response.

Sitting on one of the green couches, with an elegant chandelier overhead and the sun shining through the arched windows, Amelia felt at home. She ordered an iced vanilla latte with oat milk and the avocado herb sandwich.

“Tell me all about your plans,” she prompted Weston after their regular waitress, a southern woman in her thirties, had left for the following table.

Weston sighed and tapped his fingers on the table, trying to decide whether or not she was worthy of a response after she’d made him wait for her.

He must have decided she was.

“I was thinking about joining the chess club. Robotics looks cool, too.” His brown eyes lit up as he spoke, his blond hair barely past his eyes.

Amelia had no doubt he would find his niche when he went away. A flutter of sadness filled her stomach. Whatever their friendship was would change when he left. Maybe even disappear. He was good-looking and the most intelligent person she had ever known. He’d find another girl. Her stomach knotted, knowing that she would be replaced.

Amelia took another bite of her breakfast as she tried to think of something else. She did the math on the commute from where she would be at UCLA to San Diego State University to visit Madisson. Two hours max, the way she drove.

Weston ate his chicken wrap and dabbed his lips with a napkin after a bite.

Amelia stirred her latte. When would she ever go to Cambridge?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Weston asked, noticing he’d lost her attention.

“Do you think we will still be friends after you leave?”

“Of course.” His brows furrowed.

They hadn’t discussed when he reached for her on the Fourth of July. He probably forgot about it. She definitely hadn’t told him she’d been talking to Art since the party. Who even knew what it was and what wasn’t worth saying? What was worth keeping to herself?

“I’ll email you once a week,” Weston added, interrupting her thoughts.

He was forever the planner, always wanting his life in a neat, organized box. Which is why Amelia had been sure they were destined to be together. But at some point, he decided she no longer fit into his plans.

Now that she had a taste of what life could be unplanned, with spontaneous fireworks and alley kisses, maybe it was for the best. Perhaps she wasn’t a planner like she tried to be with him.

Weston signaled for the server and handed her his parents’ card. He had lost her attention again.

Amelia pushed inside Art and Max’s apartment after her vocal lesson on Thursday, which was far more convenient than the last couple of times she drove to their town from her house up in the hills. For all theater students, it wasn’t solely the acting that mattered. You had to be a triple threat–acting, dancing, and singing. Acting was what she loved and what she excelled at. She got by on the dancing because she stayed in shape and had decent rhythm. As for her singing, her parents had paid for vocal lessons for the past four years to make it bearable.

“I’m glad you came,” Art said. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Water with lemon would be great.”

They had been texting, and the banter came across as natural through messages as it had in person. A nervousness grew when Art invited her over while Madisson was in Monterey visiting her cousin. But Madisson promised that Art had seemed friendly so far, and reminded Amelia that she would have Max as a buffer. Amelia bit her tongue. Max was not someone she would count on for anything unless she wanted a poorly drawn tattoo.

Max stood at the kitchen counter with the neighbor who she recognized as the grill master on the Fourth of July.

“Tony,” he introduced himself.