Chapter 1
Jack Harper walked into Amy's life the
night Joey Mangano defeated the champ with a knockout in the second
round of the world championship.
No one saw it coming.
The bar exploded in equal jeers and
hoots as the Champ hit the floor. His defeated image multiplied
across sixteen flat screens around the bar.
A good boxing match brought patrons to
the bar until the fighters were left staggering around the ring
with their eyes swollen shut and their faces
unrecognizable.
Usually, the tips would be plentiful,
but knockouts in the second round left room for doubt. It was only
eleven o'clock and practically a wasted night. Couldn't the Champ
have last six rounds? Weren't these things rigged anyway? Would the
customers be generous with their tips or not?
Amy circled around to check her tables,
her vaseline smile rivaling that of a beauty queen. Her long
ponytail tap-danced across her shoulders as she transported
itty-bitty, chicken carcasses and beer from table to kitchen
repeatedly.
Can I get you another pitcher? We have
a knockout special on thirty wings tonight. Sweet of you to propose
marriage, but if you saw me in frumpy sweatpants instead of these
biker shorts, you'd think twice.
The tips were good, and the patrons in
an early drunken state, high on experiencing a Great American
sports upset on live television.
Forget the smell of stale beer and
fried food in the air. Forget the leering, and yes, the occasional
ass smack.
Amy needed the tips.
Seven days left until payday, and she'd
been evicted from her apartment hours earlier.
She counted her meager savings
repeatedly in her head, thinking she would magically come up with a
different number. She was still short to put down on a new place,
but she could at least get a room at a cheap motel. A couple of
nights and she'd figure things out.
Figure things out, like life--and
organic chemistry.
Kelly, a girl from Ohio, gave Amy an
extra table. She wouldn't complain about it tonight. She crossed
the pub before stopping dead in her tracks fifty feet away from
Kelly's table.
It may have been fifty feet. Amy wasn't
exactly skilled in spatial estimates but suffice to say it was far
enough and close enough that she saw Jack Harper before he saw
her.
Jack Harper, with the same good looks
she remembered.
Jack Harper, top of his class in high
school.
Jack Harper, the star
quarterback.
Jack Harper, who accidentally hit Amy's
sister Emily, with his car, four years earlier--killing her on
impact.
Yeah, that Jack Harper.
Amy began to turn around, seconds away
from returning the table back to Kelly. But Jack Harper's friend
signaled with his hand in the air. “Are you our server?”
Jack Harper's green eyes locked with
Amy's as she propelled herself forward without thinking. “Yes,” she
said. “I'm your server.” The pad and pen slipped through her
fingers, forcing her to bend down to pick them up off the
floor.
She saw shoes.
She saw Jack Harper's shoes.
Could she stay there, crouched down on
the floor? What would her co-workers say if she crab-walked it back
to the kitchen and hid out for the rest of the night?
Straightening, she brushed the hair out
of her face. The pen's tip remained poised on the sheet of paper.
Her heart thudded in her chest and she worried she'd have a panic
attack right there in the middle of the bar. As if a tiny angel
appeared on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, she told
herself, as hard as this moment is for you, it's ten times worse
for Jack.
“Amy,” Jack said.
She'd changed a lot in the past four
years. Aging from fifteen to nineteen will do that to a person, but
he'd recognized her all the same. He knew Amy's name, he knew her
age, and he knew that when she cried, she covered her face with her
hands.
He'd seen it before.
He'd been the cause.
Her hair was longer than he remembered
and she'd grown a couple of inches taller. She was pretty
too.
He’d never noticed before.
“Jack,” she
Jack Harper walked into Amy's life the
night Joey Mangano defeated the champ with a knockout in the second
round of the world championship.
No one saw it coming.
The bar exploded in equal jeers and
hoots as the Champ hit the floor. His defeated image multiplied
across sixteen flat screens around the bar.
A good boxing match brought patrons to
the bar until the fighters were left staggering around the ring
with their eyes swollen shut and their faces
unrecognizable.
Usually, the tips would be plentiful,
but knockouts in the second round left room for doubt. It was only
eleven o'clock and practically a wasted night. Couldn't the Champ
have last six rounds? Weren't these things rigged anyway? Would the
customers be generous with their tips or not?
Amy circled around to check her tables,
her vaseline smile rivaling that of a beauty queen. Her long
ponytail tap-danced across her shoulders as she transported
itty-bitty, chicken carcasses and beer from table to kitchen
repeatedly.
Can I get you another pitcher? We have
a knockout special on thirty wings tonight. Sweet of you to propose
marriage, but if you saw me in frumpy sweatpants instead of these
biker shorts, you'd think twice.
The tips were good, and the patrons in
an early drunken state, high on experiencing a Great American
sports upset on live television.
Forget the smell of stale beer and
fried food in the air. Forget the leering, and yes, the occasional
ass smack.
Amy needed the tips.
Seven days left until payday, and she'd
been evicted from her apartment hours earlier.
She counted her meager savings
repeatedly in her head, thinking she would magically come up with a
different number. She was still short to put down on a new place,
but she could at least get a room at a cheap motel. A couple of
nights and she'd figure things out.
Figure things out, like life--and
organic chemistry.
Kelly, a girl from Ohio, gave Amy an
extra table. She wouldn't complain about it tonight. She crossed
the pub before stopping dead in her tracks fifty feet away from
Kelly's table.
It may have been fifty feet. Amy wasn't
exactly skilled in spatial estimates but suffice to say it was far
enough and close enough that she saw Jack Harper before he saw
her.
Jack Harper, with the same good looks
she remembered.
Jack Harper, top of his class in high
school.
Jack Harper, the star
quarterback.
Jack Harper, who accidentally hit Amy's
sister Emily, with his car, four years earlier--killing her on
impact.
Yeah, that Jack Harper.
Amy began to turn around, seconds away
from returning the table back to Kelly. But Jack Harper's friend
signaled with his hand in the air. “Are you our server?”
Jack Harper's green eyes locked with
Amy's as she propelled herself forward without thinking. “Yes,” she
said. “I'm your server.” The pad and pen slipped through her
fingers, forcing her to bend down to pick them up off the
floor.
She saw shoes.
She saw Jack Harper's shoes.
Could she stay there, crouched down on
the floor? What would her co-workers say if she crab-walked it back
to the kitchen and hid out for the rest of the night?
Straightening, she brushed the hair out
of her face. The pen's tip remained poised on the sheet of paper.
Her heart thudded in her chest and she worried she'd have a panic
attack right there in the middle of the bar. As if a tiny angel
appeared on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, she told
herself, as hard as this moment is for you, it's ten times worse
for Jack.
“Amy,” Jack said.
She'd changed a lot in the past four
years. Aging from fifteen to nineteen will do that to a person, but
he'd recognized her all the same. He knew Amy's name, he knew her
age, and he knew that when she cried, she covered her face with her
hands.
He'd seen it before.
He'd been the cause.
Her hair was longer than he remembered
and she'd grown a couple of inches taller. She was pretty
too.
He’d never noticed before.
“Jack,” she
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