Once and for All(41)

“Not my question,” I replied.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“The deal is you have to say you heart Lexi and show the picture when people ask about the ringtone, correct?”

“Yup. Until graduation.”

“But when I asked,” I continued, “you told me the real story. Why?”

He put the pie pan aside and turned to face me, now wrapping both of his hands around mine. “Lulu. I’m pretty much having the best night of my life. Why would I tell you anything but the truth?”

I felt my face get warm, hearing this. It wasn’t the nickname, or the assurance that I wasn’t the only one who felt this night was special, although I’d turn over these things again and again later, remembering. Instead, it was this last question, the inverse of how I knew I, myself, felt concerning just about everyone else in the world. For safety’s sake, we learn to be less honest at the beginnings of things, not more. But Ethan was different. With him and me, it was always about the truth. Why would I tell you anything but? It was the closest thing to “I love you” a boy had ever said to me. Maybe it meant even more.





CHAPTER


    11





IF YOU’D asked me, it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. But of course, nobody had asked me.

“Is Ambrose here?”

I looked up from my laptop, where I’d been studying the seating arrangements for that weekend’s wedding. A pretty girl in shorts and a button-down shirt, her red hair pulled back in a headband, was standing just inside the main door of the office, a picnic basket over one arm.

“Um,” I said, looking toward the back room. He wasn’t there; he’d left a few minutes earlier with another girl, whom he’d introduced to me as Hajar. “He’s actually at lunch.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was immediate and obvious. “Do you know where he went?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

She twisted her mouth, either pouting or thinking or both. Then she set the basket down, pulling out her phone, and quickly typed in a message. A moment later, I heard a ping. “Oh,” she said. “He says he’s in a meeting?”

The fact this was phrased as a question suggested I was supposed to dispute it, or at least give an answer. Instead, I just shrugged, smiling, and went back to my tables.

I heard her type something else. Then she said, “Well, I guess you can do sandwiches for dinner, too, right?”

I was not sure why I was still involved in this exchange. Glancing up, I saw she was watching me, again expecting a response. “Guess so.”

At this, she smiled, like I’d said much more than these two words. “Okay if I leave a quick note?” she asked, picking up a Natalie Barrett Weddings pad from the table between us. This time she didn’t wait for an answer. She just started writing.

Too many tables at this wedding, I thought to myself as I went back to my work. At least it was a sit-down dinner, so we wouldn’t be directing traffic at a buffet.

“If you could give this to him,” the girl said, forcing me to look up again, “that would be great.” She was holding out a piece of paper, folded into a neat square.

I put it on the table, above my own papers. “Sure thing.”

“Thanks so much!” A clink, then a creak, as she hoisted the basket again and started for the door. Once outside, she slid on a pair of sunglasses before walking away.

I filled in another table with names, all the while aware of the folded note nearby, AMBROSE written on the top in a curling, girlish hand. I had the oddest urge to open and read it, although I had no idea why. His love life was none of my business or concern. But it was annoying to have to run interference for him while he was off having lunch and I was still working.

That said, I had to admit (but would not have aloud, not to anyone) that having Ambrose as a co-worker wasn’t actually all that bad. Sure, there was his tendency to break things—a stapler and tape measure had suffered the same fate as the tape dispenser in his short employ—as well as the constant chatter that now filled the time I used to spend organizing place cards in silence. But in truth, he was funny, and I often had to bite back my own laughs as he prattled on about his various misadventures while we sat working side by side. Like, perhaps, scheduling two lunches at once. I couldn’t wait to hear about that one.

About twenty minutes later, stomach grumbling, I took my own break, walking over to the coffee shop for an egg salad bagel. The line was long, and I ended up back by Phone Lady, who was set up at the window counter.

“. . . so I said, you don’t have to tell me about health concerns,” she was saying, her voice carrying as always. “I’m a cancer survivor! Four squamous cells in two years scraped off my shoulders and back. And I still managed to pay my rent and bills.”

A pause, but a short one. Whoever Phone Lady was always talking to, they never seemed to get much of a word in.

“I never wanted a tenant anyway. We renovated that garage apartment for Martin, so he’d have a place for his pinball machines and model trains. That’s how good I was to him! And you know how that turned out.”

Ahead of me, a woman in a black business suit, an ID badge of some sort clipped to her jacket, exhaled loudly. I wanted to tell her to save her breath. I’d heard people outright tell Phone Lady to hush and she barely batted an eye.