72. Bailey
seventy-two
Bailey
I’m nauseous. Anxious as fuck and can’t figure out what to wear. This is torture. But, the good kind? Maybe?
I’m pulled down from the ceiling when my phone rings.
“Hey Liam, what’s up?”
“You sound weird. Your voice is doing that thing. What the hell are you up to?”
I roll my eyes, “What thing?”
“Bays,” he warns.
“Fucking fine,” I huff. “Lolly is taking me to get tacos. I don’t know if it’s a date. I don’t know if he’s still interested in me in that way and I sure as shit don’t know how he got my number.”
Liam sputters a laugh, “Ha! Oh this is good. Not at all what I was expecting but I’m glad to see my meddling wasn’t all for nothing.”
“Liam,” I start. “What do you mean?”
“Where do you think he got your number from, Bays?” He laughs, sounding too damn proud of himself. “You’re welcome.” He adds.
“Thanks?” I manage.
Why am I even the least bit surprised by this? Of course Liam had his hand in this.
“Bays?”
“Yeah?”
“Go find your happy,” he says.
My eyes sting. I look to the ceiling in some silent plea—not even sure what it is I need.
“I will,” I manage.
“Text me later! I’ll be dying to know how it went.”
“Fiiiiine.”
“Have fun, Sugartits,” he says with a laugh before ending the call.
I get back to trying to find something to wear. I can’t look too invested or risk looking like I didn’t put any thought into it. There’s a fine line there.
Shit. This right here is precisely why I don’t date. Well, that and the fact that no one else has come close to what I had with him all those years ago. Just meaningless conversation and wasted time.
I go with my favorite vintage t-shirt and faded jeans. Blue Vans today because, why the fuck not. I run some pomade through my hair and try to remember whether or not I put on deodorant. Fuck it. A second layer can’t hurt.
I glance in the mirror, making sure the deodorant isn’t on the outside of the shirt, brush my teeth—again, and head to the living room.
I’m too nervous to sit down so I decide it’s perfectly fine to pace the length of the living room, phone in hand.
I’ve re-read the text messages a few times now, making sure I have the time right.
It’s almost as bad as boarding a flight.
Checking my fucking seat assignment fifteen times before I find it.
I risk another glance at the time. Okay. He’s going to be here any minute now. Should I wait outside? No, that’s too needy. Should I let him knock and pretend I’m chilling on the sofa unbothered?
Nah, too cavalier.
Fuck.
Okay. Surely he’s going to text before he gets here, right? That way I can nonchalantly be heading out the door when he pulls up? That’s got to be the least awkward scenario. Best I can do.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and try to force myself to sit for a second.
Nope. Standing is the only option.
Is he still interested in me? Like, is there a chance he’s going to kiss me? The thought alone is enough to stir my dick.
Oh no, not right now.
I start running through alphabetical lists of medications to distract myself. I make it all the way to Meloxicam when my phone dings.
Lolly: Pulling up
I pat myself down, checking for my phone and keys and then smooth my shirt and reach for the door.
“What the?” A fucking G-Wagon is idling in front of my apartment. I close my mouth, realizing my jaw was wide open.
“Hey,” he says as he comes around to the passenger door.
Bailey. Say something for fuck’s sake.
“Hey,” I manage. Fuck, he looks good. A cropped shirt and oversized jeans that hang low on his perfect hips have my undivided attention.
“You coming with me or did you want to stare at each other for a while longer?” He says with a coy smile.
“Shit,” I stammer. “Sorry.” Damnit, my cheeks are hot.
He opens the door for me and I realize it’s time to move my feet.
When I finally remember how to walk, I get in, his scent drifting from where he stands and hitting me with so many memories at once that I can barely take them in.
I’m still lost in leather and spice when he shuts his door and turns to me.
“Put your seatbelt on, green eyes.”
“Hah, oops,” I sputter. I swear to God I’m not going to survive this. What happens with my IQ and this man is something to be studied.
“Nice car,” I say. Why? No clue. It just fell out of my mouth.
“Thanks.”
I can’t stop my hands from fidgeting with my shirt. The nervous energy pouring through me requires either a fidget or a bouncing leg and I’m not sure which one is worse at this point.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “Tell me something true.”
I smile as I remember the first time he said that. How easy it was. How freeing.
“I—um,” my mouth feels dry, hands clammy as I reach for wherever in hell I left my balls.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry for everything.”
“Me too,” he says.
I exhale, relaxing into the seat as I rest my arm on the console next to his.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t take my hand, but doesn’t pull away.
We ride in comfortable silence for a while before he puts some music on.
“I’m glad you came,” he says with a glance toward me.
“Me too,” I admit. Me fucking too.
I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed this.
Missed him.
But I feel it now.
That emptiness I couldn’t place that followed me everywhere? It’s gone.
He’s the missing piece and I’ve been trudging through life without it. He’s my tether, my stronghold, and I was so lost without him that I didn’t even notice.