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“We would have found ourselves here whether or not Will got involved.”
“You’re defending him?”
“He made a mistake, Hope. He’s on a journey just like all of us, and he stumbled.”
I shake my head. “He didn’t just stumble. He used me. He made me believe in him.”
Worse, he made me believe he believed in me.
“You’re entitled to your anger, but I can’t help but wonder whether there’s something else driving that rage.”
“Like what?”
She shrugs, her shoulder lifting and lowering like tucked wings beneath her shirt. “I don’t know, Hope. Only you know if there’s some reason you’re choosing to run away.”
“I’m not running anywhere,” I say.
“You can’t stay still anymore.”
“I know.” It’s long past time to go.
Maeve brightens. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”
She retrieves a postcard with a recipe written in her neat block handwriting. “Brew this tea when you’re ready.”
“What’s it for?” I flip the card over. The back is blank.
Maeve’s eyebrows raise, and mischief glimmers in her eyes. “You’ll find out.”
36
WILL
If I were a better person, I’d let my mom take over planning Noah’s surprise party. She’d take this meeting to confirm outstanding details. But if the last few weeks have proven anything, it’s that I’m not that guy. The one who does the right thing.
The clock strikes 2:15. Hope was supposed to be here at two. I glance at my phone and debate texting her, but if she hasn’t answered any of my other messages, I doubt she’ll respond to one accusing her of being late.
My knee jiggles under the desk. The picture frames vibrate. I stand and pace the office. This is how a caged elephant must feel before it’s about to perform.
I check the time again. 2:17.
I’m going to lose my mind.
2:18.
A knock on the door has me jumping out of my skin. “Come in,” I say in an uncontrollable high-pitched voice.
The bartender from Newport with the blue streak of hair opens the door just far enough to poke her head in. “Sorry, Will. I didn’t mean to bother you. Have you seen your mom around? She wanted to talk about references for a few of my friends who need jobs.”
It takes all my strength to keep my voice neutral. It’s not her fault she’s not Hope. “I think she’s in the pantry doing inventory.”
“Great, thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, mostly to myself because she’s already disappeared, having left the door ajar.
I sit again and look through the stack of résumés my mom handed me this morning. She’s got a gift for finding college kids who need jobs. Or a better grasp of using social media to recruit. At the very least, she’s found a way to recruit without going bar to bar. I look through the stack of candidates and select the best of the bunch to call for interviews.
Only half my brain manages to function. The other half is listening for the sound of someone walking down the hallway.
