- 15 -
February 2045
Hallee
Throwing up in a plant was not on my bingo card for the evening, especially not in front of Dean. I’m sure he assumes it’s because of alcohol, but it’s not. Not even close.
I really did enjoy escaping into a different life, surrendering to a new personality and sealing it with red lips. It was all fun. Well, could’ve been fun. Should’ve been fun? It was, until it wasn’t—until it ended with this.
Dean’s holding my hair back, which is sweet, but it’s kind of making it worse because he’s behind me and I’m in a dress that looks like this. He keeps looking up, away from me, as if the sky is super interesting. It’s literally dark, and the stars are washed out by city lights. There’s nothing up there, but it’s better than me, I guess. Most things probably are.
How am I? Embarrassed barely scratches the surface, and Dean’s near-silent chuckle confirms that this isn’t the night he expected. Well, it’s not the night I planned for now, is it?
A strong arm reaches out to hand me a cup of water, and I glance up to see the bouncer smiling down empathetically.
“Thank you,” I mutter, taking the drink and sipping it slowly.
Expletives set sail in my head, but never out loud. My sailor’s mouth is my dirty little secret—something a parent would probably be ashamed of. Not very ladylike , I can hear a mother scold. Not my mother, because I can’t remember her.
I think I miss her.
The thought spirals another wave of nausea through me.
Dean’s hands brush my arms as he wraps his jacket around my shoulders. It’s another trophy I’ll have to show for our spontaneous encounters. How many clothing items can you acquire from the same guy before you’re considered an item? Surely I’m teetering the line.
The fabric of this is different. Heavier. Fancier. It’s—
Oh my gosh, a tuxedo jacket!? Forget teetering the line. This is the final shove to the other side. What is he doing wearing a tuxedo to a club?
“I called a car,” he says, still rubbing my back. “It’ll take you home, and when I see you’ve made it up safely, I’ll leave. I just want to make sure you make it home.”
“How did you know where I live?”
His blank stare reminds me.
“ Right . . . do you think we’re doomed to an eternity of unfortunate events every time we see each other?”
“Seeing you could never be unfortunate, Hal.”
My heart pounds faster, and each thump emphasizes the stare of his eyes.
Ask me, they insist.
You ask, mine blink back.
My mind runs wild in the open field of silence, now and always. Nine times out of ten, it ends with melodramatic tears and realizing I have no one to call. I just want to belong to someone, for one night. Or at least feel like I do.
Just one night.
“Dean,” I whisper, blinking away my tears and pride. “Can I come over?”
To his credit, his shoulders didn’t flinch as my voice broke in desperation. I wonder if his heart did.
“Hal, I’m not sure that’s the best idea . . .” he trails off, glancing at the plant.
“I’m not drunk.”
He lowers his chin and glances up at me, smirking. It’s unfair, how weak it makes my knees. This fickle thread holding me together will snap with a denial. Can he tell by my shallow breath?
Willing my voice to sound stable, I continue. “I’m not drunk, Dean, I’m withdrawing from the dangerous border of an incredibly embarrassing and near socially fatal panic attack.”
His eyes widen, and there it is. The pity.
It’s slight—a minor shadow—but it’s there. This is why I haven’t told anyone about the attacks. I already know I’m broken; I don’t need them to know it too.
Surely, somewhere along the way, someone taught me coping mechanisms, but time took them away. If only they could be ingrained into me like my anxiety seems to be. Maybe then I’d have a shot in this fight, or at least a shield for when my mind is triggered into autopilot.
Being looked at is the biggest trigger.
Disappointing people is another.
It’s a gift , they told us . . . a gift to forget.
Ain’t that the truth?
Although . . . it’d be nice to be able to find the shattered pieces of me and puzzle them back together. Maybe then I wouldn’t be here, and Dean’s demeanor wouldn’t look like he’s about to approach a stray dog. Shoulders dropped, eyes soft, watching me shiver in his jacket. He thinks I’m cold, but it’s really the suspense of wondering if I’m wanted. Which one makes it more likely he’ll take me home?
He opens his mouth, but changes his mind mid-thought. As he takes my hand, smiling gently, my lungs start working again.
“I hope you like to read,” is all he says before helping me into the car.
The passing lights twinkle in the dark like a galaxy of stars weaving itself into our city. It’s one of my favorite things, seeing the city at night. Chill bumps raise on my arms as we pass The Marmotte. Fate’s the ultimate wing woman, bringing us back together like this. Clearly she’s on our side.
Placing his hand on my leg, Dean gently strokes my knee. It’s rare, this familiarity with a stranger. Almost feels like we’ve done this before. I can see it—us doing this again, but the details fade to black before I get stranded in the daydream.
It’s reckless, hoping for a future like that. Like driving in the dark with no headlights. But maybe if I want it badly enough, I can will it into existence.
The thought dissolves as we pull up to Dean’s apartment. He runs around the back of the car, rushing to open my door for me, and I’m hit with a vision of us doing this again, and again, and again. Hurts a little, being teased by my mind, but his hand reaching for mine sedates the sting. Like a perfect gentleman, he helps me out of the car, steadying me with a hand on my lower back. It makes him feel good that I accepted the help. His smile says so.
“Thank you,” he says to the driver before sweeping me off my feet and carrying me into the building.
“Dean!” I laugh, trying on the idea of us by playfully hitting his arm like a girlfriend would. The first-class ride lasts in the elevator and down the hall, until we reach his apartment door.
“Welcome to my castle, Sunshine.” He winks, pushing it open and setting me down carefully. “Hudson and Matt are on duty this weekend, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
I really need a filtration system for these fleeting moments of confidence. I didn’t think enough before coming here. Astonishing, truly, because have you met me? I always think enough. Too much, probably.
“My room is this way.” He laughs, eyeing my twiddling thumbs. “Nervous, Hal?”
Yes, very.
“No, why?”
“Call it a hunch.”
“Well your hunch is wro—” my voice stops with my steps. Dean just got about ten thousand times more interesting.
His room is a library. There are all types of genres here, but there’s no rhyme or reason to his organizing system. The books of a series aren’t even placed together—the blasphemy! My eyes linger on a few of the dark romances, and my face heats at the images of us flashing through my mind.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, gently touching my arm.
“Yeah, sorry. Just distracted by the books. You’ve visited a lot of different worlds.”
His head tips, confused. Mine tips back. Did I speak a different language? He shrugs a little, as if shaking off a thought, and curiosity reconnects his gaze with mine.
“I must’ve been a reader in a past life, but I can’t get myself to pick any up this year. I hope if it was important to me, I’ll find my way back to that passion somehow.”
Ah, Dean just got about ten thousand times less interesting. Call it a wash, I guess.
I turn to hide my growing disappointment, but the series Miles suggested calls to me. It feels like a weird violation of privacy to pick it up, considering Dean hasn’t even done it. I blink, and my heart projects a vision of me placing a book onto these shelves. Maybe one day they’ll belong to me too.
“The bathroom is through here.” He walks by, and the familiar smell of his cologne stops delusion from driving me off the cliff. It’s officially faded from his sweatshirt. Smell doesn’t withstand the test of time. Feels like a brutal reminder that we wouldn’t, either.
“Nothing like a shower after the club,” he says, laying a clean towel on the counter.
Hard to read, this one. Can’t quite tell if he’s excited to be alone with me or bothered that he’s not actually alone.
“Wait just a second.” Holding up a finger, he jogs out the door. “Now, these might not fit,” he says with a chuckle, before turning the corner with a T-shirt and sweatpants, “but you are free to try.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, and time stalls as my hand grazes his.
“Anytime.” He smiles, eyes glancing down to my lips. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”
Stay, my eyes blink, but he’s out the door.
Is this round two of the cat and mouse game? Of course I don’t want to shower with him. But maybe I would, if I could? I mean, look at him.
He did leave the door open . . .
Before making another decision while disguised in confidence, I rush to close it. Feels like I can breathe again as I strip off Marlowe’s dress. It was claustrophobic, despite how little it actually covered.
Releasing a long exhale, I step into the shower. The water drops wash away every part of the personality I tried on tonight, leaving behind nothing but the version of me I want to like best.
Dean
She is in my shower. She is in my shower, and I have forgotten how to exist. She almost left the door open. Would’ve done me in if she did.
The sound of popcorn pops me back to reality and I race against the clock to turn this night into a seamless romantic surprise. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for our first date, but when opportunity comes knocking, you answer the door. Especially when opportunity looks like her.
I grab every blanket I can find and the candles from Hudson’s bathroom. He swears a candlelit bath isn’t girlie, and I’ve given him shit for it—until now. I’ll have to thank him later and replenish his stash.
As quietly as possible, I slide the coffee table under the mounted TV. The shower turns off as I’m grabbing the pillows from my room.
Tick tock, Dean.
Throwing the softest blanket aside, I lay the rest out on the floor, prop the pillows against the couch, decorate the coffee table with the candles, and light them before running to the kitchen.
She said she wasn’t drunk. Does she want to be? I’m not the most qualified in coping with a panic attack—maybe she wants to drink away the aftermath.
If I can’t give her the world, I sure as hell can give her whatever drink she might want. Wine—red and white—water, Sprite, and two mugs stuffed with hot chocolate packets from the pantry. Her footsteps approach as I set it all down. Lingering timidly in the doorway, she reaches up and twists her wet hair.
Oh, I am in so much trouble. Suspected it when I saw her in her dress, but seeing her in my favorite T-shirt confirms it. It’s more modest than her dress was, but somehow more intimate in this exciting way that makes me unsure of where to look. If I look at her, I might never stop. But if I look away, I can’t hear anything except my heart roaring to look at her again.
“There you go again, standing and staring,” she teases.
How do you tell someone you barely know that you could spend forever staring at them without sounding like a total stalker? It’s true. I could spend an entire life like this. Can see it, too. Us dancing in the kitchen like a couple without a worry in the world.
So much for not getting attached—I never stood a chance.
“Feeling better?” I ask, patting the empty space beside me. As she hesitates, I hold my breath.
Dressed up or dressed down, she’s a knockout, although I prefer her this way, with her makeup washed off and her hair drying naturally. There’s something extra beautiful in the exclusivity of seeing the rawest part of someone. Bold of me to assume this is exclusive, but that’s the grand mystery of Hallee. She has me believing we’re something we’re not. She has me believing in something we could never be.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d want to drink, so I got some of everything.”
The look she flashes is a curious one. Not seductive, but thankful. A look you’d offer a friend, but that’s not the goal now, is it? There’s no way the friend zone is the end zone here.
“Wine’s great, thanks.”
Her eyes look a little sad again as she sits down beside me, and queasiness accompanies the memory of Man Bun’s hands traveling over her body without consent. Me causing her eyes to look like that might be my biggest fear, so I sit patiently still. She’s the captain of this evening. Whatever she says goes, no questions asked, but staring at her in the silence, I know exactly what she needs.
The opening credits to one of Hudson’s rom-coms roll as I crack open the white wine. I pour her a perfectly portioned glass before topping mine off with a little extra to curb my shaky hands and mind.
“Cheers to new beginnings and a night we’ll never forget,” I toast.
She scoffs, clinking her glass against mine, and downs half of it before cutting me a sassy glare.
“What? What did I say?”
“We’ll always forget, but cheers to the sentiment.”
Oh, that one hurt. Knocked the wind right out of my lungs. She’s right, I guess, but it’s kind of ironic she had to remind me.
“Then cheers to the time that we have.”
However much it is, there will never be enough of it.
“Cheers, Dean.”
Hallee
A night we will never forget—really? That’s what he chose to go with? It was all going very well before that annoying reminder.
The shower felt so good that I lingered a little longer than I normally would. The longer the water hit me, the more vulnerable I felt, yet what should have felt like a foreign vacation felt like returning home after a long voyage. A miracle, considering how easily I startle. A promising sign—for what exactly, is to be determined.
Gently shoving his shoulder, I push him against the couch. He drapes a blanket over us like I drape his arm around me, and my body finally relaxes. Can’t say the same for my mind.
Is this all I’ve amounted to? Relying on a man’s comfort to save me from the battlefield of being alone?
Shame isn’t a very good friend, but this is the soul I have to live with. All I have is me. Please, let me be enough.
We haven’t discussed expectations for tonight, but I don’t feel pressured. If anything, I’m a little worried he’s disinterested. Jam-packed silence and lack of eye contact aren’t exactly crystal clear signals of interest. Maybe lover boy has some nerves to shake off too.
Passion is romanticized, but his innocent gentleness is endearing. It’s incredibly irreplaceable to feel safe with someone. Weird though, isn’t it? Feeling this safe with a stranger. He would put me above himself—would hurt for me but never hurt me—if he cared for me. Which he does.
Doesn’t he?
With one blink, I envision us laughing on the couch. We’re watching a different movie, but drinking the same wine. My hair is shorter, and his hair is longer, emphasizing the passage of time. How many times could we do this in one year?
As quickly as it came, the vision goes. What would fate charge to ensure that my wildest dreams would come true? What would the currency be?
“You good?” His question pulls me out of my head.
Oh shit, he’s looking at me. Can he tell that I’m crazy?
“What? Yeah! So good,” I reply, inching closer to his comfort with each breath. His kindness is almost as captivating as his eyes.
My head falls onto his shoulder as if it belongs there. I’m pretty sure it does, because my body knows exactly where to lie for the best fit into his. As he leans his head over mine, my soul ignites, glowing in the dark. I’d spend forever resting in his security because nothing could be more right, but forever is just an increasingly depressing trick of my imagination.
Dean’s eyes follow me as I reach for the wine again. He’s trying to hide his worry, but it’s written on him like a billboard. It’s the only tangible proof he might care about me as much as I already care about him.
“I thought it’d be fun to try something new. You know, no lasting impressions and no consequences if I crashed and burned.” His head nods, but his silence coaxes me to continue. “Isn’t that the grand design—to live freely and unburdened?”
Gazing to the floor, he shifts slightly. He’s misunderstanding my heart.
“I’m so lost. I’m exhausted from trying to choose who to be. I thought if I tried on a different personality that I’d enjoy it. Maybe I’d feel like I’d saved a past version of me. Instead, people stared, and courage crumbled, and all that’s left is little old cowardly Hallee.”
He flinches as if I struck him.
“Hallee, you don’t ha—”
“I keep thinking it’ll get easier, dealing with the panic. Clearly, I am mistaken.”
Dean’s hand stills before he pulls it from my leg. Shame passes through me like a salty tidal wave, burning my eyes and discarding me violently on the shore. My vulnerability is embarrassing, so I down the rest of my wine.
“Hallee,” he starts, but I cut him off, eager to clean up the mess of myself. Tears show up just in time to wash away the stains.
“I’m sorry, this is a lot. This was your alone time and I begged you to bring me here like some damsel in distress. I can go home, really. I’m okay. Totally fine.”
Right, because totally fine people force what they want rather than focusing on what’s real.
“Hal.” His voice is soft, holding gauze to my clotting wounds. “Thank you for trusting me.”
A wavering breath exhales from my lungs, and I press my hands to my eyes like a kid playing hide and seek. Before I can count to ten, his gentle hands nudge away my shield.
“Irrational jealousy.” His eyes steal my inhibitions as his voice breaks. “That’s what I felt seeing him touch you tonight. Your dress? Stunning. Your body? Breathtaking, Hallee. But now?”
I brace for it. You’re crazy . . . you’re too much . . . you’re—
“Underneath the mask of whatever you were pretending to be, you are even more radiant. It’s astounding.”
I’m sorry . . . what?
“I hear you, and I see you for all that you are—a messy, complicated, intriguing, and devastatingly beautiful ray of light.”
My melancholy eyes rain down tears. He understands, and is already piercing my protective distractions, shredding through the parts of me waging war against myself.
Delicately cupping my cheek, his thumb brushes away my flowing stream of insecurities.
My heart pushes me to kiss him—honestly, to do a lot more with him, but gaining a relationship also means losing it.
For him, I’d love and lose. Would he? I’d never ask him to, but would he want to? I want him to. Happy me needs love too, almost more than messy me.
Pulling me close, his strong arms are my weighted blanket until the lingering tears evaporate and my self-loathing fades away.