I began my return home, pausing at the stoplight to press the button for the crosswalk. Tejon Street had moderate traffic for a weekend night, not that I had much to compare it to. Usually, by this time, I would be lying on my couch, eating cheese and crackers while reading one of the trash mags Kirby loved to bring to work to read on breaks.

“Hey!” Dalton said, running up to me.

I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“He promised he wouldn’t walk you home. But he didn’t promise he wouldn’t make me walk you home.”

I shook my head, trying to subdue the victory welling up inside of me. “I can handle walking across the street.”

“Just pretend I’m walking in the same direction then.”

I sighed. “Are all hotshots this difficult?”

“Are all Ivy League grads this difficult?”

“I’m an Ivy League dropout.”

Dalton smiled. “You’re all right, Falyn.”

I smiled back.

The light changed, and Dalton and I silently crossed the street, passing two businesses before we reached the front door of the Bucksaw. I pulled the key ring from my pocket and stabbed the dead bolt with one of the two keys hanging from the ring.

“You live here or something?”

“Upstairs.”

“That’s convenient,” Dalton said.

“And cheap.”

“I can relate. Night, Falyn.”

“Take care, Dalton. It was nice meeting you.”

He nodded, returning to Cowboys. The dance club was across the street and another two doors down, but I could see Taylor and Zeke standing together on the sidewalk, smoking, chatting, and intermittently checking my progress.

I pulled the door open before closing and locking it behind me. The blinds were drawn, and the lights were off in the dining area. I fumbled around until I found the stairs leading to my loft.

The second key fit in my door. I turned the lock until I heard a click, and then I twisted the knob to my empty apartment. Most Friday nights, I could hear the throbbing bass from Cowboys as I lay in bed, and this night was no exception. But this time, I looked through the letters in my shoebox, my eyes watering at the return address on all the envelopes, with the possibility of being in Eakins soon becoming a reality.

The feeling was so surreal—being hopeful for the first time since I’d lost hope.

Chapter Five

“Order up!” Chuck yelled from the window in an authoritative deep tone that he only used for that purpose.

It was a gorgeous Saturday afternoon, the normal river of voices louder and more animated. Families occupied almost every table with babies crying, a toddler running in circles around his table, and teenagers hovering over a single cell phone and then bursting into laughter.

Hannah, the high schooler who would help on the weekends, checked on each table, stopping briefly before moving on like a hummingbird in a field of flowers.