Chapter Six
Hayden
Way Too Long
Lee DeWyze
The words settle in the space between us with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel as immediate as it does. I don’t turn right away. I let the sound of her voice exist for a second longer than necessary, absorbing it, letting it shift something that had been held in place up until now.
Then I turn. Time has done exactly what it was meant to do. It’s sharpened her. Refined what was already there instead of changing it. She’s more beautiful, if that was even possible.
Her hair’s arranged in a tight bun that sits low on the back of her head.
The red color is deeper than I remember, catching the light in a way that draws attention without asking for it.
Her posture is the same; straight and composed, but there’s something else layered into it. Something quieter, more certain.
She’s not unsure of herself. She’s not trying to be anything other than herself. Her eyes meet mine without hesitation. The color still the dark green I remember. There’s no flicker of surprise or uncertainty reflected in them. Only recognition.
“Nessa.” I breathe out in acknowledgment. Her name sits differently now. It’s heavier, more deliberate.
“Wow.” A smile breaks across her face. “No one’s called me that for years.”
“It has been a long time.” There’s no question in it. No pause to confirm what she already knows. Silence follows, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels measured. Like neither of us is willing to be the first to misstep.
“You look-” The words don’t come as easily as they should. Not because I don’t have them, but because none of them feel precise enough. Her brow lifts slightly, not impatient, but expectant. “Better than I remember.”
It’s not what I really want to say, but it’s what fits the situation. A faint shift at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. “Careful,” she admonishes quietly. “You’re setting expectations.”
“I don’t make statements I can’t stand behind.”
“I remember.” Her gaze holding mine just long enough to make the words land the way they’re meant to. But, there it is. Not confrontation. Just acknowledgment.
My attention shifts briefly back to the painting before returning to her. “You still come here?”
“I work here, but I think you already know that. So,” she shrugs like the rest is obvious. She’s been waiting. She knows me better than I realized.
“Van Gogh was always your favorite.” I offer as way of an explanation, not that one is really needed.
A small breath leaves her, softer than the rest of her. “You did pay attention.”
“I always paid attention.” That almost earns a smile. Almost. The silence stretches again, but this time it carries something else with it. The history of unsaid things that don’t need to be forced into the open to exist between us.
“You’ve changed.” It’s not a criticism from me. Just a fact I want to acknowledge, because after all, I am paying attention.
“So have you.” There’s no hesitation in her answer. No attempt to soften it.
“I’d hope so.”
“Mm.” The sound is thoughtful, her gaze drifting over me for a moment, not lingering, not invasive, just taking stock. “You’ve always needed to be in control.” The words land with intention. They aren’t sharp, but they aren’t casual either.
“I haven’t lost that.”
“No,” she muses aloud, her tone even. “I didn’t think you would.”
Something about that settles deeper than it should. “And you?” I ask, watching her now with more focus than before. “Is that what this is?”
Her head tilts slightly. “What’s that?”
“This.” My hand moves subtly, not pointing, but gesturing up her frame. “This version of you.”
“I’m just me. I don’t put who I am in a bucket.” There’s no defensiveness in her tone. It’s simple and certain.
I hold her gaze a second longer, searching for something that isn’t immediately there. Or maybe something that is and I’m not reading it the way I used to. I don’t know how to correlate what was then, with what seems to be now.
“That wasn’t something you were interested in before. Who I was wasn’t something you were interested in before.”
“No,” she agrees easily. “It wasn’t.”
“And now it is.”
“And now it is.” The repetition isn’t mocking. It’s grounding.
I let out a slow breath, more aware now of the fact that I’m not the one directing this conversation. Not entirely. “You didn’t seem surprised to see me.” The words come before I decide to say them.
She studies me for a moment, something thoughtful moving behind her eyes. “No, I wasn’t expecting it.” Her tone is measured, honest without giving too much. “But Chicago isn’t that big, and I knew the possibility existed since you live here in the city.”
That’s fair.
“And you?” she asks, shifting the focus without effort. “Were you expecting to run into me there?”
“No.” I cross my arms, turning to face her more. “I have questions.”
“I’m sure you do.” Her eyes narrow just a fraction. “That must be frustrating for you.”
A faint pull at the corner of my mouth. “You remember that too.”
“I remember a lot of things.”
That lands. Harder than it should. She steps back then, creating just enough space between us to shift the dynamic without breaking it. “Standing here probably isn’t the best place for this conversation.”
“No,” I agree. “I suppose it’s not.”
Another small pause. “If you want to catch up,” she offers, like it’s nothing more than a passing suggestion, “we can meet for drinks.”
An invitation. On her terms. I don’t answer immediately. Not because I’m unsure. But because I recognize what it is and I’m not used to be on the receiving end of it. “How about dinner?”
Her gaze holds mine, steady, unaffected. “Thursday works for me.”
“I can pick you up at seven?” I suggest in way of agreement.
“Something tells me I don’t need to share my address.” A slight incline of her head as she assesses me openly.
I blink in response, uncrossing my arms to rest one hand against the railing below the painting, hoping the fact that my heart just forgot how to work isn’t obvious to her. Another beat passes between us.
“I’ll see you Thursday, Hayden.” The words are simple. But they’re not light. Then she turns. No hesitation as she walks away without looking back, her pace steady, her posture unchanged, but everything around me feeling like it shifted.
I watch her until she disappears into the flow of the gallery, her movement unhurried as if nothing about the last few minutes requires a second thought.
The space closes around her the same way it does everything else here; quietly, without disruption, until there’s no trace left but the shift she leaves behind.
My hand is still resting along the edge of the barrier in front of the painting.
I hadn’t noticed. I straighten slowly as I release it, more aware now of the way the moment settled into something that didn’t move when it should have.
Conversations resume around me. Footsteps pass.
A low murmur of voices threads through the room, controlled and respectful, like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
For everyone else, it hasn’t. I look back at the painting. It’s the exact same brushstrokes.
The same movement I couldn’t see before. But it doesn’t hold my attention now. Not because it’s changed. Because something else has.
She hadn’t hesitated. Not when she stepped beside me. Not when she spoke. Not when she left. There wasn’t a single second of uncertainty in her actions. No adjustment. No attempt to match where I was or meet me halfway. She set the pace.
My jaw tightens slightly, the realization settling in with a weight that doesn’t sit comfortably.
Vanessa Caldwell is the only woman I’ve ever loved.
She walked away from us because she said she couldn’t build a life with a man who needed control the way I did.
I didn’t agree then, and I’m not sure I agree now.
I’ve spent years understanding how people move. How they respond. Where they bend and where they don’t. She doesn’t fit into any of it. Or at least she didn’t.
I exhale slowly, dragging my attention back to something that makes sense. She works here. She has a routine. She chose Gild. She chose this version of herself. And she chose to ask me to meet her.
That last part lingers. Not because I don’t understand it.
Because I do. Better than I should. It just isn’t how this usually works.
I’m usually the one making the choices. I step back, creating distance from the painting, from the space, from the exact point where everything shifted without asking for my permission.
Thursday. Three days. Too long. Not because I don’t have things to fill the time. I do. The studio. Recording with the band. Running. The routines that keep everything where it belongs.
But none of them are going to answer the questions I still have.
None of them are going to explain how she walked into a private room at the club without hesitation.
Or how she stood next to me just now like nothing between us had ever existed before.
Or why she didn’t feel the need to explain any of it.
I turn, moving through the gallery at a measured pace, aware of the way my focus has narrowed into something sharper than it was when I walked in.
She set the terms. The day. The time. And I agreed.
For now. But three days is a long time to wait without understanding what I’m walking into.
And I don’t walk into anything unprepared.