Page 133 of The Breakup Artists

“Well, all right then.”

August gestures to me and I rattle off our order. But when I stop speaking, he’s staring out the window, his expression serious.

“Ella?” I ask, because I know he’s been thinking about her all day.

He shakes his head.

“Your dad?” I try again.

“Berkeley,” he says, and I hesitate.

I know we didn’t leave that conversation on a resolution, but I also thought he’d give me more than a handful of hours before bringing it back up.

“I said I’d think about it,” I remind him.

“It’s not that.” He takes a long pause. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

I gesture at him to spit it out. “You know I suck at suspense.”

“The thing is...” He uses his straw to dunk the ice cubes in his water glass. “I can’t afford the tuition.”

For a second, I don’t compute. “But your savings—”

“Spent it all on bills this past year to bail my mom out.”

“All?” I choke, and he nods.

Everything we’ve worked for, eviscerated? And now our business is boarded up, with our last and biggest case refusing to pay us. “I’ll lend you—”

“No,” he cuts me off in a tone that tells me that subject is nonnegotiable.

“Scholarships,” I say. “I’m certain you could get one.”

“I did. It only covers five K.”

“What about a loan?” I say, and a sick feeling ripples through me. Even if he gets one, he’ll be in forever debt. And it just seems so unfair after how hard he’s worked. “We can start a new business and—”

“We can’t get a business up and running fast enough and you know it. But yeah, I’m looking into a loan. I just thought you should know.”

“Even if we can’t get a business up in time to help with the first year’s tuition, it’ll definitely help with the other three years,” I say, determined to find a solution.

Some of the worry leaves his face, and I instantly realize my mistake.

“Does that mean you’ve decided to go?” The hope in his voice makes me squirm.

“Uh, well...” I say, breaking eye contact, feeling like a major idiot.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to—” he starts.

I cut him off because I’m not sure I can handle the level of guilt associated with him being this understanding. “I didn’t think you were.”

He nods and I stare at my water glass, feeling terrible.

Our waitress brings sodas and warm garlic knots, but I barely notice. The only thing that makes me look up is August asking me if maybe I want our food to go.

I give him the side-eye. “Why would you—” But then I follow his gaze out the window.

Bentley is on the sidewalk, and worse than that, he’s not passing by; he’s headed for the restaurant’s front door.