Chapter Twenty-Four
Vanessa
Say Yes To Heaven
Lana Del Ray
The shift between us is small enough that nobody else would probably notice it. But Hayden notices. Of course he does. That’s the problem with falling in love with someone observant. You can’t even pull away gently.
And I have fallen in love with Hayden Sloane. Again. Which in itself should feel amazing, but I find by Monday morning, I’m trying to reclaim pieces of myself. Not in a big way and not in any way in which I’m trying to hurt Hayden. I just attempt to make more space for myself to breathe.
I stay late at the museum Tuesday night instead of leaving at five like I have been for weeks. Wednesday, I tell Hayden I already made plans with Nicole after work. Thursday, when he asks if I want to stay over at his apartment, I tell him I have an early meeting and should probably sleep at home.
None of it is technically a lie, but every time, disappointment flickers in his voice before he smooths it away, and guilt curls low in my stomach because of it. Because the worst part? He really is trying. That’s what makes all of this so hard.
The old Hayden would’ve demanded answers already. He would’ve wanted to know where I was, who I was with, why things felt different. He would have been sitting outside my apartment waiting and watching. This Hayden notices the distance and gives me room anyway.
Which somehow makes what I’m feeling even harder because I truly don’t want to hurt him.
By Friday afternoon, Chicago is wrapped in cold rain and gray skies, the kind of early December weather that makes the entire city feel exhausted. I’m standing in the museum restoration room cleaning varnish from the edge of an oil painting when my phone buzzes across the table beside me.
Dinner tonight?
I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary before typing back.
Only if you promise not to feed me enough food for hibernation again.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
No promises.
Later, when I step outside, Hayden’s waiting, but of course he is.
He’s leaning against the hood of his car beneath the glow of the streetlamp, and just like that, my entire body betrays me.
The butterflies start fluttering. God, what this man does to me.
I know he’ll ruin me if I let him, but I walk toward him anyway.
He’s dressed almost all in black tonight.
Dark wool coat. Black sweater beneath it.
Hands shoved into his pockets while rain catches in his dark hair.
The second he sees me, his expression shifts into something soft.
Like finding me settles something in him every single time. Knowing this feels dangerous.
“Well,” I say as I approach, trying for casual but failing. “That’s a very dramatic pose you’ve chosen.”
“Is it?” His brow furrows like the thought of him actually trying to pose in any way is such a foreign thought.
“You look like you’re about to star in an expensive cologne commercial.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “You like that?”
I roll my eyes even as warmth curls low in my stomach. “I’m not complaining.”
Hayden reaches for me the second I’m close enough, fingers brushing mine before he takes my bag from my shoulder. “Long day?”
“Mm.” I lean into the warmth of him while he opens the passenger door for me. “One of the interns nearly destroyed a nineteenth-century frame with citrus cleaner.”
“That sounds like a fire-able offense.”
“It should be.” I agree as his hand settles against my lower back as I slide into the car, the touch light. He’s being careful. I can tell he’s still learning and still trying. And somehow that matters more than all the intensity ever did.
The drive to dinner is quiet in the comfortable way we’ve become over the last two months.
Rain taps against the windows while low jazz hums through the speakers and Hayden’s hand keeps finding mine every time he stops at a red light.
He does it without thought now, like touching me has become instinct.
By the time we pull up outside La Scarola, the knot of tension I’ve carried all week is loose enough that I almost resent how easily he can affect me.
Warm light spills across the sidewalk from inside the restaurant windows, the smell of garlic and cheese wrapping around us the second we step through the front door.
“There he is,” the hostess smiles when she spots Hayden. “Starting to think you had abandoned us.”
“Temporarily distracted,” Hayden answers without hesitation.
Her eyes flick over me, her smile growing wider. “Well, we’re happy to have you both for dinner.” She grabs two menus before waving us toward the back corner without even asking for a reservation. “Your table’s open.”
The corner booth sits tucked partially behind a wine rack, candlelight flickering warm yellow light across white tablecloths while Sinatra hums through hidden speakers overhead. It’s private without being isolated. Intimate without trying too hard. Very Hayden.
And of course, instead of sitting across from me, he slides into the booth beside me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the heat of him wraps around me anyway.
The waiter appears out of thin air with a bottle of red wine already in hand. “Would you like your usual order?”
Hayden glances toward me. “You want to change anything?”
The fact that he asks makes something inside me ache without warning. Because old Hayden wouldn’t have. I give a small shake of my head. “No. The usual is perfect.”
His gaze lingers on me another second before he nods once toward the waiter. Wine is poured. The candlelight flickers. Outside the windows, rain continues weeping over the city.
And somewhere between Hayden’s hand finding mine beneath the table and the familiar warmth of this place wrapping around us, I feel some of the distance I’ve been trying to create begin to slip away.
Which I know for me is dangerous. Especially because Hayden seems quieter tonight; more thoughtful, like there’s something sitting behind his eyes he hasn’t decided how to say yet.
“You’re staring at me,” I murmur before lifting my wineglass.
“You’re beautiful.”
His response is fast enough to unsettle me, causing my heart to skip against my chest.
“Careful,” I whisper. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
“I’m thirty-three, Vanessa.”
“Basically ancient.”
A low laugh rumbles out of him before his thumb brushes once across my knuckles beneath the table. The gesture feels absurdly intimate. More intimate than sex.
The waiter arrives with our appetizers before silence can stretch too long between us, Hayden thanking him without ever taking his attention off me.
And I realize all at once what feels different tonight.
He’s nervous. Not enough anyone else would notice.
But I know him well enough not to see it in the tiny hesitations.
The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers keep tapping against his glass.
The careful way he keeps looking at me like he’s trying to gauge something.
“Okay,” I turn toward him in the booth. “What’s happening in that head of yours?”
His eyes hold mine for a second longer than usual. Then, “I’m wondering if you’re free tomorrow night?”
The question catches me off guard for just a moment. Mostly because of the way he asks it. He’s not assuming or expecting. He’s asking. And somehow that tiny distinction matters more than it should.
“I could be,” I answer after a beat.
Something unreadable flickers across his face before he reaches for his wine again. “Years ago, you told me you danced ballet up until you started college.”
I blink. Because I barely recall that conversation. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything about you.”
God. The quiet sincerity in his voice hits me in a way that I have to look down at my wineglass before I lose my composure in the middle of this restaurant.
Hayden watches me for another second before continuing. “You also said you had never seen The Nutcracker performed by a major ballet company.”
My eyes snap up to his. That’s when I understand why he’s nervous. “I may have decided that feels unacceptable,” he admits on a shrug.
Warmth blooms across through my chest. “Hayden…”
“The Joffrey is performing it tomorrow night.” His thumb strokes against my hand again beneath the table. “I wondered if maybe you’d let me take you.”
For a second, I’m left speechless. Because this isn’t flashy. Or extravagant. Or performative. It’s thoughtful. He listened and he remembered. Years later. And somehow that unsettles me more than flowers or expensive gifts ever could.
“You told me you hate the ballet,” I remind him.
“I don’t hate the ballet.”
“You once called it emotionally aggressive twirling.”
“That feels like it was taken out of context.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. And God, the way Hayden looks at me afterward. Like hearing me laugh is still one of his favorite things in the world.
“I had to stop dancing when I left for college,” I admit after a moment. “I haven’t really,” I shrug, “let myself think about it since then.”
“That’s a shame.” His voice is softer now. “Because you told me you loved it.” Not, you were good at it, but you loved it. The distinction lands hard.
I drag in a breath and swallow. “Yes,” I admit. “I did.”
Silence settles between us afterward, warm and flickering beneath candlelight and rain and wine.
And sitting there beside Hayden while his fingers remain tangled with mine beneath the table, I feel something inside me begin to soften despite every instinct telling me not to.
Because this man notices things. The small and fragile things.
The pieces of me I don’t even realize I’ve handed him.
And maybe that’s what makes loving Hayden so terrifying. He pays attention enough to matter.
“I would love to go to the ballet with you, Hayden.”