Chapter Eleven
Hayden
The Waiting
Tom Petty
I wake up late enough that sunlight is already cutting through the gaps in the blackout curtains by the time I pry my eyes open. My head pounds. Not badly. Just enough to remind me that whiskey and beer in the same night stopped being a smart idea somewhere around thirty.
I stare at the ceiling for a second trying to piece together the end of the night. Paddy’s.
Dean arguing with the bartender about the existence of good tequila in Illinois. Mikey stealing fries off everyone’s plates like a raccoon with no self-respect. Luc leaving early because Lily texted him a picture of Larkin refusing to go to bed without him.
A faint grin pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. It was good. Better than good, actually. It was necessary. And this is what Luc excels at and why he’s always been the leader. He recognizes shit, calls it out, but then has a way of settling us all without making it seem overly intentional.
The realization settles heavier than I expect.
Somewhere between the studio, the tension with Vanessa, and the constant pressure of the album, I’d started shutting myself off again.
The guys noticed. Of course they did. They always do.
And this is why they’ll always be my family.
More than my blood. They are there for me, no matter what.
I drag a hand over my face and sit up slowly, the cool air from the vent brushing across my bare skin as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I press a button to raise the shades, light slowly filtering in to fill up the room.
Outside, Chicago looks different than it did a month ago.
It’s getting colder. The lake beyond the window is steel gray beneath an overcast sky, and the trees lining the streets below have turned fully into autumn.
They’re all deep reds, burnt oranges, and yellow leaves.
Many have fallen and scatter across the sidewalk and grass as result of the harsh Chicago wind.
It’s typical for late October. Summer’s coming to a close and with it, the heat and humidity that often stifle the city into oppression. I’m ready for the change. Irony at its best given my current circumstances with Vanessa.
By the time I finish my coffee, the restlessness under my skin has returned. So, I run.
Seven miles down the lakefront trail with cold air burning my lungs, the sleeves of my hoodie shoved halfway up my forearms by mile three.
The city feels quieter this late in the morning, runners and cyclists spread thinner along the path, dogs pulling their owners through piles of leaves while the wind coming off the water cuts sharper than it did even last week.
Normally, running clears my head. Today it only manages to reorganize my thoughts. Vanessa at the club, at the museum, and then dinner. And the kiss. Her response to it. Realizing some feelings don’t die, they just lie quietly in wait.
My pace picks up automatically. Because the problem isn’t that I can’t stop thinking about her; it’s that I’m not trying too anymore. I welcome the thoughts intruding now.
Back at the apartment, I shower, throw together something quick to eat, and finally reach for my phone while toweling my hair dry. Three missed texts from Mikey. One from Luc.
And one from Dean that says, you’re dramatic when sexually frustrated. That’s it. It’s his way of letting me know we’re okay.
I snort once under my breath, but smile.
Asshole. I toss the phone onto the counter and grab my keys instead, stopping halfway to the elevator when realization finally catches up with me.
My car. It’s not here. I took an Uber home last night.
It’s still parked at Luc’s house outside the studio. “Fuck.”
An hour later I’m in the backseat of an Uber heading toward Oak Park while the driver talks loudly on Bluetooth to someone named Maria about sausage prices.
As we pull up to Luc’s house, the quiet suburban driveway blurs for half a second as a sudden spike of adrenaline rushes through me. I don’t wait for the Uber to stop fully as I push the door open and fly out of the car.
Larkin is in the driveway. Tiny pink helmet crooked on her head, little legs pumping furiously against the pedals of a tricycle that’s angled just a little too close to the street. And she’s alone.
“Larkin!” The name leaves sharper than intended as I jog forward, gravel crunching hard beneath my shoes. Her head snaps up immediately, a wide, toothy grin aimed my way.
“Uncle Hayden!” She starts pedaling faster toward me, my pulse kicking harder as the gap between us closes. She’s safe now. I’ve got her.
Then movement shifts near the garage. Luc steps into view holding a basketball under one arm, brows pulling together instantly as he takes in the scene. And just like that, the panic crashes straight into awareness.
What was I thinking? Of course she isn’t out here alone. Luc and Lily are amazing parents. Attentive. Not the kind that pass out on the couch after drinking their weight in beer.
Larkin reaches me, giggling as I catch the handlebars to steady the tricycle before crouching down in front of her. “Hey, menace.”
“You came over!” Her little voice filled with excitement.
“Looks that way.” I reach up and fix the crooked helmet strap beneath her chin, pressing a quick kiss against her cheek before I stand straight again.
Behind her, Luc stays quiet for a second too long, brows pinched. Watching, taking it all in. “You good?”
I rake a hand through my hair, heartbeat still settling unevenly inside my chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I just didn’t see you at first.”
Luc’s gaze flicks briefly toward Larkin before returning to me again. He knows why I just reacted the way I did. He’s one of the only people that does. “The anniversary’s coming up, huh?”
A tight knot forms instantly beneath my ribs, and I kick a loose stone with the toe of my shoe. “December.”
Luc nods once like that explains everything. Because to him, it does. And I let him believe it. For now. “You need anything?”
“Nah.” I shake my head, meeting his gaze. “Thanks for last night though. It helped.”
“Didn’t do anything.” He claps a hand on my shoulder as he strides past me on his way to maneuver Larkin in a different direction. Typical Luc. And the reason I love him more than I’ll ever be able to admit.
By the time I climb into my Audi, the sky is starting to darken. Another thing about Chicago in October. The days disappear faster. Instead of heading home, I find myself turning east. Then south. Then eventually pulling up across from Vanessa’s apartment like it wasn’t the destination all along.
The engine idles quietly beneath me while I stare up at the lit windows on the second floor.
Her windows. Warm light spills through partially open curtains, soft against the darker blue of early evening.
I can see movement inside every few minutes.
Her silhouette crossing from one room to another. Pausing then disappearing again.
Domestic. Soft. Nothing about it should hold my attention this completely. Yet here I am. Watching like a damn stalker. I unlock my phone before I think better of it.
The contact entry is new. Added sometime after midnight when the whiskey had lowered my resistance enough to stop pretending I wasn’t going to reach out eventually.
My thumb hovers once. Then I type.
You always leave people wondering after kissing them like that?
The reply comes faster than I expect.
I’m sorry, should I know who this is?
Oh, so she wants to play it like this.
Just how many people have you kissed in the last few days?
Do I even want to know how you got my private cell number?
A smile tugs slowly at my mouth as I realize she completely evaded my prior question.
I have resources.
The typing bubble appears immediately. Then disappears. Then comes back again.
That somehow feels less reassuring than you think it does. How’s the overthinking going?
I lean back against the seat, surprised she called me out for exactly what I’d been doing. Then again, she knows me. Or at least she used to.
Not the first time I’ve been accused of that. How are you?
There’s a long pause before bubbles finally appear, then her response.
Trying to pretend I haven’t been replaying Thursday night in my head. I failed.
That lands harder than it should.
That makes two of us.
This time, silence stretches longer. Long enough that my attention drifts back toward her windows again. A shadow crosses the living room. Then stops. My phone pings with another message from her.
You recording tomorrow?
Okay, this has promise. I reply back.
Off until Monday.
Her response is almost instant.
Let’s do coffee tomorrow.
I’m usually the one that makes the demands.
I smile as I hit send.
You saying no?
I’m a man. Rejecting you not remotely possible.
This time the response takes longer, but I wait, rewarded a moment later.
There’s a café next door to the museum. 11?
I’ll be there.
Are we really doing this?
It’s just coffee.
You know what I mean.
I do.
She doesn’t respond after that. And I know I should leave. Instead, I stay where I am, watching the movement inside her apartment while the city hums quietly around me. Ten minutes later another message lights up my screen.
You can stop staring at my windows now, Hayden.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I type back immediately.
Your cat’s been sitting in the window judging me for the last five minutes. I think we’re past subtle.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Stalker.
I stare at the message longer than I should. Then glance back up toward the second floor just in time to catch her silhouette stepping away from the window.
And somewhere in the middle of downtown Chicago, alone in my car like a complete fucking idiot, I realize I’m smiling like a love struck idiot.