Chapter Three
Hayden
I’m an orphan, a product of the broken foster care system in the United States, a Black woman in conservative politics, and a single twenty-nine-year-old.
Regardless of all that, nothing—let me repeat, NOTHING—makes my skin itch and crawl with irritation quite like Darcy Marshall. My mind seethes as I clench the steering wheel to my car. The horns of cars stuck in five o’ clock traffic vibrate my soul.
It’s in the way he saunters—a cheetah on the hunt for the gazelle.
He never smiles, unless he’s doing an interview or event.
No, that’s not true. He also smiles when leading a meeting or talking to strangers.
But with me, he wears his permanent scowl like a badge of honor.
The scowl is simply an outside manifestation of his foul, filthy soul.
Granted, his mind is sharp as a whip, which annoys me because it makes me like him.
Something else that annoys me? Darcy never slumps, but always sits as straight as the Space Needle in Seattle.
His eyes, though one may mistake them for the heat of a blue-flamed fire on a chilly night, are as cold as an early spring snow.
And he’s too tall for his own good. Seriously, the man looms over everyone. He’s not human.
But enough.
Darcy Marshall will NOT steal my joy. I’m better than throwing a mental tantrum like a hormonal middle school girl. Been there, done that. Bright side: my weekend has officially started.
Against my better judgment, I pull my hair free from its ponytail holder and black coils spring loose.
I don’t have to check the mirror to know I look like a dark-haired lion with what’s bound to become scars coating my face, but that’s okay.
Because I am happy, joyful, ecstatic, confident…
All the things. I even crack my windows and let the cool March air kiss my cheeks.
My personal feelings toward Darcy aside, I’m ecstatic to be heading his campaign.
He may not be a treat to deal with one-on-one, but his Christian morals, conservative ideals, and personal freedom-centered philosophical outlooks are worth backing.
Throughout college, I changed my major more than politicians change positions on important issues to appease the culture.
You could say I’m a multi-passionate person.
With each new elective class I took, I became infatuated with a new career option: becoming an FBI agent, a forensic scientist, and even a brain surgeon.
But after my first political science class—a basic American government class—I knew I found my home. My calling.
As they say, the rest is history.
My best friend is awesome; I love her and would give her my kidney.
But when she stepped down as Darcy’s campaign manager and recommended I take her place, I was popping like marvelous fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Then, a thought drenched my fuse: there’s no way Darcy is going to let me manage his campaign.
I was done for. However, Stella Harper is a magical being, and in her unknown ways, she convinced Darcy to let me take the reins. Cue the fireworks again.
Personality-wise, he’s the literal incarnate of the romance hero he’s named after, but he’s also my ticket into the world I was born to live in.
I pull into the parking lot of my apartment, get out and lock my car, and head toward the elevators to my eleventh-floor room.
Glancing at Stella’s old apartment brings a flood of emotions, but I shake it off and unlock the door to 11H.
The rotten stench of an empty chicken package assaults my nose, and I chastise myself for not taking the garbage out sooner.
Blankets are thrown haphazardly across my couch, used cups sit on every coaster in my living area, and I know if I walked to the kitchen, a pile of dirty dishes would beg me to wash them.
I would staunchly say no because I’m the girl who washes as she needs a dish.
Takeout is my go-to for the most part, so dishes aren’t required on the norm.
Once I’m in the bathroom and opening the burn cream I stopped and bought right after leaving Darcy’s, I dare a glance in the mirror.
My face is bubbled and blistered, and when I take my shirt off, I realize my chest and parts of my stomach match my face.
I gently and lavishly apply the cream, wincing at every touch.
Baggy clothes it is for the foreseeable future.
With a sudden wave of exhaustion—eighty percent emotional, twenty percent physical—I zombie-walk to my bedroom and collapse backside down on the queen size of downy softness, wincing at the movement of the burns on my stomach.
If I splurge on anything, it’s my bath time needs and my bed.
The moment my head hits the pillow, I close my eyes and let out a tired breath, followed by a sigh of contentment at ignoring my responsibilities in favor of sleep.
Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!
I jolt upright, chest heaving and breath heavy, as I desperately attempt to find her in the dark alley.
My hands search my body, and I realize I’m in my bed, clothed in my pajamas, and wholly frazzled.
The cold, haunted streets of my dream fade away with each breath in through the nose and out through the mouth.
A succession of knocks on the door startle me again. I check my phone for the time and realize I’ve only slept for forty-five minutes, though it feels like an eternity. Wrapping my robe tightly around me and snuggling into my house slippers, I head for the door.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, Miss Bennett.
” My landlady stands outside the doorway with a stack of papers in her hands and a timid smile.
I’ve often wondered how she came to manage an apartment building.
Deborah is a soft woman to say the least. Not only is she small in stature, but also in personality.
She’s quiet, shy, and introverted to the core.
“Not a problem, Deb. What do you have there?” I eye the papers in her hand. “A notice I can help you pass around to the other tenants?” I take a paper from the top of the stack just as Deb vehemently shakes her head.
“Deb, please.” I close my eyes and take a breath. “Tell me this isn’t true.” I hold the notice up as if she didn’t already know what was on it.
“I–I,” Deb stutters. I open my eyes and watch a tear roll down Deb’s cheek. I take the stack of papers from her hands, place them on the floor, and wrap her in an embrace. Whatever the reason is for this, I’m sure she isn’t the cause.
“It’s going to be okay. Do you have a place to go?”
“How can you be concerned about me when you’re losing your home?” Deb’s words are mumbled as she cries into my shoulder.
“Because I’m going to be okay,” I say. I’ll be okay. Maybe if I say it enough I’ll believe it? I peek over Deb’s head at the stack of notices.
One month.
I have one month to pack up my belongings and vacate the apartment.
“So, what brought this on?” I ask. Deb steps out of my embrace and picks up the stack of papers.
“The city keeps increasing the costs for the property, and I can’t keep up without raising the rent exceptionally high.
” Deb sniffles and rubs her nose with the outside of her hand.
I reach through my door and grab the box of tissues that sits on the counter.
“The city is going to take over the building. I don’t know what they have planned. ”
Deb looks away and crosses her arms, her shoulders tensing. It seems she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I offer to go with her to pass out the notices to everyone.
“That’s why I came to you first.” She smiles sheepishly.
“I’ve always got your back, Deb.” I square my shoulders and take the papers from her hands.
We begin going door to door, and I spew a monologue of explanation and apology on behalf of Deb.
I give hugs where needed and step between Deb and irate tenants more often than I should have to.
The entire time, panic is rising in my chest and a million questions swirl around my brain.
Where will I go? When will I have time to find a place within a month between work and trying to find a woman for Darcy?
Will I end up stuck on the streets again?
What if I don’t find an affordable place to live?
The anxiety presses down hard with each door I knock on.
When we finally finish, I feel heavier than the loaded barbell dropped after the final rep at the gym.
I hug Deb goodbye and tell her I will check on her tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I lock myself in my apartment and make the phone call to the one person I need the most.
After two rings, she picks up.
“Hayden! Is everything okay?”
“Chill, Stells. We’re good here in New York City,” I say, needing to inform her it’s not a life-or-death situation. Though honestly, it feels that way right now. She lets out a long-winded sigh.
“I’m in the car with Luca right now. Just so you’re aware he can hear the conversation.”
Silence ensues for a moment. The rumble of the road is loud in the background, and then I hear Lucas say, “Sorry, Hayden. I’m in the middle of seducing my wife. Can’t talk.”
Stella giggles, then squeals. “Stop, Lucas! Eyes on the road.”
“Oh, I have my eyes on something,” he responds, his voice clearer as if he is leaning toward Stella.
I attempt a laugh, but it falls short.
“Hey, Lucas. I really need your wife for like two minutes,” I yell into the phone.
“Ouch,” Stella’s voice grows farther away as if she pulled the phone away from her ear. “Okay, Luca. Let me hear her out before she screams in my ear again.” Then back to me, she says, “I’m all yours.”
With mustered sarcasm, I say, “Aw. Thank you so much, best friend.” She scoffs on the other end of the line.
“Okay, but seriously,” I begin, feeling the panic rise as I prepare to tell her everything.
“I’m getting kicked out of my apartment, Darcy still has me on a wild goose chase for the perfect wife, and I’M GETTING KICKED OUT OF MY APARTMENT. ”
“I think we should start with the apartment thing,” Stella says. “Tell me what happened.”
I recap the events while fighting back hysterical tears. This isn’t like me. I face situations like this head-first and with a bold, lioness attitude. Not like a hopeless woman who has no fight left in her. Have I gotten too comfortable in life?
“There’s got to be something available with a decent rent and within your travel range,” Stella says after I finish. “The issue is going to be finding time to move.”
“Exactly.” I sob, no longer able to hold the deluge back. “Because Darcy still wants me to find the mythical holy grail: a wife he’ll be satisfied with.”
“Oh, Hayden,” Stella sighs, and I can visualize her sad, gray eyes in my head. “I’m sending you hugs right now. Do you feel them?”
When was the last time I cried like this?
I collapse onto my couch, shoving my head in my pillow while my phone falls to the floor.
I hear Stella’s breathing through the headphone in my ear and my body relaxes, sinking into the taupe cushions.
The cool air from the open window kisses my skin, and I am comforted.
Knowing I have someone in my corner who is simply willing to listen calms me.
As the tears begin to fall slower and my breathing becomes more even, I tell Stella thank you.
“Let’s make a game plan,” she says. I grin through the salty tears still rolling down my face and sniffle.
“My favorite words.”
An hour and a half, several Lucas interruptions, a few hundred “I miss you’s”, and one demolished pint of ice cream later, we hang up.
“She’s right,” I say while hoisting myself off the couch.
“There’s no sense in panicking. There’s got to be something available for me in this big city that is reasonably priced and not too far a drive from work.
If I tell Darcy I need a day or two off to move, I’m sure it won’t be the end of the world. ”
The trash can lid pops open with the tap of my foot on the floor lever, and I toss the empty ice cream container in. The chicken stench is overwhelming, but I think I can survive with the smell for one more day before mustering up the motivation to take out the trash.
“Also, she’s going to reach out to her contacts and give me names of women who might be suitable for Mr. Never Satisfied.”
I pause in my tracks on my way back to the love of my life—my couch—as an uncomfortable realization hits: I’m going crazy. I’ve been talking aloud to myself more and more with each passing day. I haven’t done that since I wandered the streets alone for days on end as a teenager.