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Not here.
Not ever! Shit!
“Give it back.” I swipe for the phone again, but I’m clumsy with horror. I barely knock Stephen’s forearm and there’s no force to it. He bats me away and reads on, his voice carrying across the bar. And Andre’s not the only one listening now—heads turn, and a few eyes flick to me as the letter goes on.
“I live with my older brother, and my crush lives alone. We moved to this small town four years ago, and I’ve been pining for the man next door since I first caught sight of him around the moving van.”
There’s an awkward titter. Someone bites their lip.
“Oh my god,” I say, swaying on my feet, sweat trickling down my back. They know. They already know. “Stephen, stop it.”
He doesn’t hear me. My voice is hollow, scratched up, and the music is too loud, the bar filled with laughter and conversation, and besides—my brother loves an audience. He’s riding high.
A glance at Andre confirms my worst fears: he knows too. Heknows.Our neighbor stares at me as Stephen reads my letter aloud. He’s gripping the bar so hard his knuckles go white.
Is that anger? Disgust? Aah!
When he gets to the chef part, Stephen tilts his head and grins down at me, like it’s weird. A funny coincidence. Half way through the description of Andre, my brother finally pales and stops reading.
The phone drops down by his side, the screen still lit up. I sag against the bar, stomach churning like the ocean in a storm.
A few onlookers boo, calling for the rest of the letter, but Stephen flips them off and finally they turn away. Then it’s just me, my older brother, my crush, and my half-read letter echoing between us.
I feel sick.
“I’m so sorry.” When Stephen speaks again, it all comes out in a rush. He drops the phone onto the bar, takes my shoulders, and peers into my chalk-pale face. I don’t feel so good. Hell, myeyelidsare clammy. Did that really happen? “Faith, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was your letter, I swear.”
He’s wide-eyed with concern and guilt, ashen beneath his own freckles, but what is there to say? He can’t take it back. He can’t wave a magic wand and command everyone in this bar to forget my pathetic words—and if there’s one guarantee, it’s that the whole town will hear of this by morning.
Humiliation tastes sour on my tongue.
Andre.
I can’t look at Andre. Not after seeing that white-knuckled grip. Maybe if I never look at him again, I’ll never have to see his full reaction. The inevitable pity and irritation. After all, they’ll be gossiping about him too, and he hates that. He’s always hated too much attention.
Andre’s like me. Happier in the background.
Kind of a shame nature gave himthatface, really. He’d blend better with more flaws.
“Barely anyone heard it. It’s going to be fine, okay?”
“Andreheard it, you jackass.”
It’s no use. We both turn as one, matching dark red heads swiveling to our neighbor. The chef leans against the bar, relaxed again, his expression smooth, but he’s not looking at us. He’s reading something in his palm, blue light washing over his sharp cheekbones.
My fucking phone.
I swear to god, that thing is going in the trash. I’m getting a landline. No—walkie talkies. Tin cans on a string. If people want to reach me, they’ll have to stand outside the house and throw pebbles at my bedroom window.
“Stop,” I beg, leaning hard against the bar, but I don’t try to snatch the phone back this time. Instead, I watch and wait and die of shame as Andre reads my whole freaking letter, taking his sweet time, then reads Dear Hattie’s reply.
His eyebrow twitches exactly once. That is the only reaction my letter gets this time.
Hey, maybe I’ll throw myself in the trash too. Make a new home among the garbage.
When Andre turns and signals the bartender for another drink, I snap. I’m done. Something fractures deep inside me, and I can’t bear it for a second longer.
“I’m out.”
