Ezra’s eyes narrowed. “You are embarrassed of me.”
“I’m not!” Aria cried. “But did you see the way they all looked at us? Didn’t that make you uncomfortable?”
“Since when do you care what people think?” Ezra poked his head into the dining room. As soon as he looked, everyone’s head turned away instantly, to hide that they’d been staring.
“I don’t care what people think,” Aria insisted. Although, in this case, maybe she did.
“And you’re eighteen,” Ezra continued. “Everything we’re doing is legal. There’s nothing to worry about. Is it because I haven’t made anything of myself? Because my novel sucks?”
Aria almost screamed. “This has nothing to do with your novel.”
“Then what is it?”
At a nearby table, a waiter set a dome-shaped dessert on fire, and blue flames shot up into the air. The table applauded. Unconsciously, Aria’s gaze drifted toward the entranceway once more. Noel hadn’t moved. His blue eyes were fixed, unblinking, on Aria.
Ezra followed her gaze. “I knew it. Things aren’t over between you, are they?”
“They are. I swear.” Aria shut her eyes. “I just . . . I can’t do this with you right now. I can’t be in public with you. Not with all these people here. In New York, it’ll be different.”
But Ezra pulled away from her angrily. “Find me when you grow up and sort out all your baggage, Aria.” Then he stormed into the crowd.
Aria felt too weary to follow him. Despair rippled through her. Was love always this complicated? It certainly hadn’t been with Noel. If she truly loved Ezra, would she have been oblivious to everyone’s confused and gossipy stares?
She drifted toward the buffet and ate a tofu skewer without tasting it. A hand touched her arm again. It was Mrs. Kittinger, her art history teacher, dressed in a bowler hat, a checked men’s vest, and billowing black pants.
“Aria! Just the person I’d like to see.” Mrs. Kittinger pulled a typewritten paper halfway out of her leather bag. “I wanted to thank you for handing in your Caravaggio project early and tell you what a lovely job you did. I was reading it before the performance tonight.”
“Oh.” Aria smiled faintly. She’d finished her portion of the report and emailed it to Mrs. Kittinger this morning, adding a note that she’d tried to get Klaudia to help her with the project, but Klaudia hadn’t been interested. Okay, so it was kind of a tattletale thing to do, but she wasn’t letting Klaudia off the hook.
“I haven’t received anything from your partner yet, though,” Mrs. Kittinger added, as if reading Aria’s mind. “Let’s hope she turns something in by Monday, or else I’ll have to fail her.” She looked like she wanted to say something more, but then she shot Aria a sad smile, slipped the paper back into her bag, and moved down the line.
The band started playing “’Round Midnight,” one of Aria’s favorite songs. A heady, soothing smell of olive oil drifted through the air. When Aria looked up at the collection of knickknacks lined up on the high shelves over the tables, she noticed a familiar Shakespeare bobble head figure. It was the very same one Ezra had given her before he left last year. She’d treasured that gift, jiggling its head often, longing for Ezra to write to her and reconnect. After a while, she’d figured he’d long forgotten about their relationship, but all that time, he’d been writing a novel—about just that.
The world seemed to brighten a little. Maybe Aria was being juvenile and paranoid about Ezra. Since when did she care what other people thought? She was Kooky Aria, the girl who wore pink streaks in her hair and made up dance routines in gym class. Rosewood hadn’t changed her that much.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched through the crowd. Hopefully, Ezra was still here. She would find him, bring him to Ella, and tell her their plans. She would dance with Ezra on the tiny dance floor, students’ and teachers’ stares be damned. She’d pined for him for so long. She couldn’t let him slip away now.
“Ezra?” Aria called, sticking her head into the men’s bathroom. No answer. “Ezra?” she called again, peeking out the back door, but there were only a series of green Dumpsters and a couple of line cooks smoking cigarettes. She looked in the back dining room, the hostess area, and even the front parking lot. Luckily Ezra’s blue Bug was still parked next to a Jeep Cherokee. He had to be inside somewhere.
As Aria walked back into the restaurant, a faint, familiar laugh greeted her. She paused, icy fear shooting through her.
The laughter was coming from the coatroom. She tiptoed around the unmanned coat-check desk. A figure moved in the blue-black darkness at the very back of the space, hidden behind overcoats and leather jackets and furs. “Hello?” Aria whispered, her heart pounding hard.
Aria heard a sigh, then the smacking sounds of two people kissing. Oops. Aria backed away, but her ankle turned, and she lurched to the side, banging into some empty hangers on the rack. They clanged together loudly.
“What was that?” a voice said from the back of the coat closet. Aria stopped, recognizing it instantly. In seconds, a figure stepped into the light. “Oh my God.”
Aria’s eyes widened. Ezra stared back at her. His lips parted, but no words came out.
“Mr. Poet Man?” a second voice lilted. A blond girl stepped out of the shadows and wound her arms around Ezra’s waist. Her hair was mussed, her bright lipstick was smudged, and the straps of her low-cut dress hung off her shoulders. When she saw Aria, she burst into a triumphant smile. “Oh, hallo!” she teased, squeezing Ezra harder.