Chapter Four – Verity
CHAPTER FOUR
VERITY
“ H oney, I’m home.”
The voice crashes my dream, but I refuse to open my eyes. I squeeze them shut even tighter as the heels clacking on the floorboards mimic the pounding in my head.
“Why are you on the couch?” A sharp nail pokes my shoulder. “And in last night’s dress.”
The nail pokes me three more times, each one more insistent.
I force my eyes open and give my roommate the attention she’s demanding.
Hannah Hayes is a beast like no other. She leaves the apartment at 9:00 p.m. looking like a total knockout and then returns the next morning still just as gorgeous—even with the slight mascara smudges and clearly tangled sex hair.
“You have raccoon eyes,” I point out.
She snorts, reaching forward and swiping a finger at the corner of my eye. “So do you. The difference is I didn’t sleep here. What’s your excuse?”
“I was tired.”
“Uh-huh.” Her amber eyes slowly trail down to my toes and then back up to my face.
She sits on the ground, her purse and phone clattering to the floor as she shucks off her cropped leather jacket and discards that as well.
“What happened?”
Well, turns out all the alcohol I drank while pissed off at my no-show date hit me like a truck in the rideshare that was paid for by a hot stranger, who I was seriously tempted to make out with but didn’t because I told myself that I would not get caught up in the first date again.
When I finally got back here, my body decided that, after climbing the stairs of our four-story walk-up, it couldn’t be bothered making my legs move anymore and left me on the couch to pass the hell out–clothes, makeup, and all.
But, instead of saying that, I just groan.
Hannah chuckles, working on unbuckling her stilettos.
“What? Was the date a bust? Did he get whiskey dick, so you came home early and drowned your sorrows in vodka and passed out on the couch? You know, this is why I told you to keep fishing in the ocean and not reel in the sparkly bass, because you never know if it’ll turn out to be an ugly trout.”
“There was no date.”
Her hands freeze, gaze cutting to me. “What do you mean?”
I purse my lips and roll onto my back.
“Vee. What. Do. You. Mean?”
“He didn’t show up.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Dude. What the fuck? Why didn’t you text me?”
“You had your own date.”
“A text is not going to ruin my date.” She perches on the edge of the couch, hovering over me. “Seriously. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really? Even though this is the third date he’s canceled in a row.”
Of course she remembers that. Hannah remembers everything.
“Technically, he didn’t cancel. He just…never showed.”
Silence spreads as she blinks three times before measuring her voice. “Are you really telling me he didn’t even have the basic human decency to cancel? He just ghosted you?”
“Technically.”
“That cocksucker. I’m going to murder him.”
“Hannah.”
“Verity,” she whines my name, looking at me like I’m some abandoned kitten.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. Why aren’t you more pissed off?”
“Because.” I sit up, flashing her a grin. “The night wasn’t a total bust.”
Her pity quickly morphs into curiosity, an impish glint skating across her vision.
“Oh? Do tell.”
“There was this guy at the bar.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he invited me to this speakeasy under a Korean fried chicken place—”
“Wait, you mean Anju Boy?”
“Yup.”
“Stop. Ugh. I’ve been trying to get someone to take me there. The drinks are expensive, so I don’t want to pay for them myself.” She nudges her knee against mine. “Nice going.”
“Thanks. Anyway, we got a round of drinks and some food and ended up chatting until like one in the morning. And not just surface level stuff but an actual in-depth conversation.”
“I love this for you. A+ for spontaneity.”
“I knew you’d be proud. I embraced my inner Hannah.”
She rolls her eyes at me lovingly. “Important question: was he hot?”
“Yes, he was hot. You think I’d run off with a stranger if he was ugly?”
“You were freshly ghosted; your judgement could’ve been questionable.”
“He was hot.”
“But like, hot hot or office-bro hot?”
I’m not even sure what office-bro hot means.
“Hot hot.”
“Ooh.” She cups her palms under either side of her jaw, grinning. “I wanna see a pic.”
“I don’t have one.”
“You didn’t exchange socials?”
“No.”
She frowns. “Did you get his number?”
“No…”
“Verity.”
I give her an awkward, stretched smile, and she lets out an unimpressed huff.
I’m trying not to let it show, but my chest squeezes with disappointment. It didn’t occur to me until I was in the car, five blocks away, that I had no way to reach out to him. I couldn’t even tell him I got home safely or anything.
It leaves a sour swirl in my stomach that he might think I’m just some girl who used him for free drinks and a free ride.
I know a few girls in the city who go on dates four or five times a week because they can get a free meal out of it.
Even Hannah will admit that she loves dating because of all the swanky cocktail lounges she gets to drink at and barely pay a penny.
But that’s not me.
Which is why I suck at dating in the city.
I’m too soft.
The people who live here are a different breed—they eat and breathe the hustle culture, moving from one thing to the next, always chasing a high. The grind never stops, and they run themselves into the ground trying to stay one step ahead.
I just get steamrolled, time and time again.
I am barely able to keep myself afloat at work, always playing the political games of favoritism and trying not to drop a rung on the ladder.
I love what I do and am damn great at my job, but it is exhausting having to compete for attention with my colleagues, having to prove that my ambition and dedication are just as strong, if not stronger, than theirs.
We are always pitted against each other.
I don’t have the mental energy to spare in my dating life—I just want that one aspect of my existence to be simple. But the world doesn’t work that way.
“Oh well, who knows, maybe you’ll run into him.”
“In a city this big? Sure.”
“Hey, it can happen. Remember that time we grabbed those hangover bagels with the cheesy eggs and chili crisp that made your tongue all numb and bumped into that guy on the way out?”
“Oh, your five-foot-eight guy.”
“Yup.” She waggles a finger at me. “Never say never. People can pop up when you least expect it.”
I don’t want to burst her bubble, but I really doubt I will see him again. He isn’t even living in the city currently, which brings my odds way down.
Maybe I was just a blip on his lifeline.
Sure, I forgot to ask for his number, but he also never asked for mine. That means something, doesn’t it? Then again, I tried to run away from our kinda date, so I didn’t really leave him much of an opportunity to ask for my number, did I?
I let out a groan.
I’d been so focused on standing my ground and not kissing him—even though I literally dreamt about his lips—that now I am never going to see him ever again. What if the universe really did send him my way, and I just ignored it?
Ugh, this is a nightmare, and my hangover is doing nothing to make me feel better about it.
“All right. We both need to shower and get our shit together.” Hannah claps her hands together and slides off the couch, shattering my spiral. “I’m going first. Pop the coffee on, ‘kay?”
“Yes, your royal highness,” I drawl.
She sticks out her tongue but quickly disappears into our shared bathroom.
I slowly detach myself from the couch and slog my way over to the kitchenette.
My tongue tastes like cotton, and I dig around for some pain killers before downing them with a healthy glass of water.
Our coffee machine—the only thing in our place worth some money other than Hannah’s handbag collection—bubbles away, filling the apartment with the scent of freshly roasted beans.
I spend a few minutes searching for my phone, which had managed to fall between the couch cushions, before pouring myself a fresh cup of coffee.
I dump in a healthy glug of cinnamon roll creamer and let the caffeine spark my will to live as I scroll through my notifications… none of which are from Mike.
What an asshat.
My jaw clenches as I swipe out of my messages, refusing to spend another second thinking about him. Instead, I try to look up Cullen. I type in things like “Cullen Real Estate Broker” followed by “Miami” and “Nashville,” but—shocker—it’s pointless.
A bead of sadness lodges itself in the middle of my chest. It mourns the lost potential of what could’ve been between us.
I am getting ahead of myself again, but it really did feel like we had a connection last night.
It’s not every day you meet a guy who so easily chats with you about the meaning of love and relationships on a first date without hightailing it for the nearest exit.
We seemed to have a lot in common, too. Take all of that and add to it how hot he is, it almost seems too good to be true.
And I’d run away from him in a tequila-addled fit of panic.
If only I’d gotten something more from him, a last name or the company he works for.
Maybe if I go back to The Brass Stop? Sure, it is far as hell from the apartment, but my work is a bit closer. I could go a couple of times, see if he shows up at the bar again.
Is that stalkery?
God, I always do this—always become delusionally invested in a man after he shows a sliver of kindness. Why does my heart have to be so open?
“Okay, your turn.”
Hannah leaves a trail of wet footprints as she skirts around me and goes straight for the coffee pot. She hasn’t even bothered to put clothes on and is just in her fluffy towel, which isn’t a surprise.
I enter the steamy bathroom and crank on the water, taking my time standing under the spray to wash off the night and all my makeup.