Chapter Twenty-Seven
Vanessa
Down Bad
Taylor Swift
The first three days are the hardest. Not because I regret what I said. I don’t. That’s the terrible part. I meant every word. But missing Hayden feels a little like walking around like a part of myself has been removed in the most quiet and painful way.
By Wednesday afternoon, I realize I’ve developed the humiliating habit of looking for his car every time I leave the museum, even though I’m the one who asked for space.
The first day, I tell myself it’s instinct.
The second day, I tell myself it’s habit.
By the third, I stop pretending I don’t miss him. Because God, I miss him.
The realization settles like lead in my chest as I step outside into sharp December wind, scarf pulled tighter around my throat while snow drifts lightly across the sidewalks.
And despite knowing perfectly well he won’t be there, my eyes search for Hayden in his dark coat and watching eyes as he leans against his Audi wearing his perfectly confident smile.
And every day, nothing. Disappointment hits sharp enough that I get angry at myself. He’s doing what I asked. He’s respecting me, my request, my space.
“Pathetic,” I mutter under my breath while heading toward the train.
When I leave work Friday, a text buzzes, and I grab for it, hoping it’s him, disappointed for only a second when I see it’s from Nicole.
Wine tonight? Maybe alcohol and my charming self can cheer your sad ass up.
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth despite myself.
My ass is fine.
Quite fine. But your mood, not so much.
Rude.
Still true.
Come over whenever.
I smile as I type out my response, stifling a small giggle, and I realize it feels good to laugh. Two hours later, Nicole is sprawled across my couch in leggings and fuzzy socks while Vinny stretches across her lap like he paid rent to be there.
A second bottle of nearly empty wine sit on the coffee table between us while snow taps softly against the apartment windows.
“I’m just saying,” Nicole points in my direction with her wineglass, “the man is suffering.”
“You don’t know that.” I huff out and roll my eyes.
Nicole rolls her eyes hard. “Vanessa, please. That man looks at you like you are the beginning and end.”
A laugh escapes me despite myself, then fades almost as quick. Because God. I know he does. And that’s what makes all of this hurt so much. Vinny stretches lazily before relocating from Nicole’s lap directly onto mine.
Nicole watches me for another second before her expression softens. “You’re in love with him.” It’s not a question.
I stare down into my wineglass. “Yeah.” The answer comes easier now. Sadder too. “I think…” I exhale a slow breath, “I don’t think I ever really stopped loving him.”
Nicole’s expression morphs into surprise. “Then what’s the problem?”
I lean back into the couch cushions, Vinny purring against my legs while the city glows white beyond the windows.
“The problem is that loving Hayden feels incredible inside the spaces he creates for us.” My throat tightens around the words. “But I don’t know if he knows how to love me outside of those spaces. He wants to keep me in a neat little box so nothing or no one can hurt me.”
Nicole nods in understanding. She doesn’t disagree or defend him, she just listens. Which is exactly what I need right now. “He hasn’t texted you?”
“No.” That part matters more than I want it to.
Because old Hayden absolutely would have.
He would’ve shown up, pushed, demanded answers and refused any distance at all.
This Hayden listened. This Hayden told me he loved me.
And I’m sure this time apart is killing him.
And that somehow hurts too, because hurting him isn’t what I’m trying to do.
Nicole studies me over the rim of her wineglass. “You know,” she offers, “people don’t often change all at once.”
“I know.”
“You basically dropped an emotional nuclear weapon on the man and then disappeared.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Maybe it is. I don’t know anymore. I curl my legs beneath me and adjust Vinny. “I just…” My voice softens. “I want him to understand what I need.”
“And do you think he does?”
The question settles between us. Because if I’m honest?
Yeah, I think he actually does. That’s the problem now.
The silence no longer feels like avoidance.
It feels like restraint. And the absence between us now doesn’t feel empty anymore.
It feels like a careful choice I’m making. God, I hate this.
Nicole leaves around eleven, taking the last bottle of wine with her and threatening to fight me if I “spiral emotionally into isolation.” Which is a reasonable threat from a best friend.
After she’s gone, the apartment feels too quiet again. I brush my teeth. Wash my face. Change into leggings and one of my old college sweatshirts before pausing as I shut the dresser drawer I was closing.
The box sits shoved toward the back. Old, dusty and forgotten. Well, maybe not forgotten. Maybe more like avoided. My chest tightens as I pull it free and carry it toward the bed. I open the lid and it’s like finding a time capsule.
Dance recital programs. My last pair of pointe shoe ribbons. Old Photos. Ticket stubs. A faded backstage laminate from one of Devil’s Halo’s earliest tours. And there, tucked between two old notebooks, a Polaroid of me and Hayden.
The image steals the air from my lungs. We look impossibly young. Me in frayed cutoffs and a Northwestern hoodie, my hair pulled into a high ponytail. Hayden in ripped jeans and black leather, one arm resting over my shoulder while he looks down at me instead of at the camera.
The expression on his face wrecks me in a way I don’t expect. Because even then, even then he looked at me like I mattered more than gravity. My thumb brushes across the edge of the photo.
Back then, loving Hayden had felt explosive. It was chaotic and all-consuming. Now? Now it feels deeper. It’s quieter, although still terrifying but in entirely different ways.
Because this time we know exactly how much we can hurt each other. And somehow, we chose to love each other again anyway.
Tears sting behind my eyes. God, I miss him. The realization lands hard enough that I reach for my phone before I can overthink myself out of it. My fingers hover over the screen for several long seconds. Then I type and hit send, my heart in my throat.
I miss you. Dinner?
I stare at the message afterward, pulse thudding hard against my ribs. No taking it back now. The typing bubble appears in less than three seconds. Which means he was already holding the phone. He’s just been waiting. My chest cracks open at the thought.
Then his reply appears.
Just tell me when and where.
When I step into La Scarola the next night, my heart is beating hard enough to feel embarrassing.
Which is ridiculous. I’ve known Hayden most of my life, and loved him in two different decades.
I’ve slept in his bed more nights than I can count over the last few months, yet somehow tonight feels more terrifying than any of that ever did.
The restaurant is warm against the cold Chicago night outside. Sinatra hums through the low lighting, conversation and clinking glasses surround me when I walk in. And there he is. Already waiting. For one suspended second, all I can do is stare at him.
Hayden sits alone in the corner booth we always gravitate toward, a dark navy sweater stretched across broad shoulders, one hand wrapped around a whiskey glass while the other rests against his jaw.
He looks devastating. More than I remember somehow. But he also looks tired. Like the last week carved something deep into his soul.
His eyes lift the second I step fully into the restaurant. And everything else disappears in an instant; the room, the music, the people. It’s just Hayden and me and the entire painful week stretched out between us.
Something shifts visibly across his face when he sees me. I think it’s relief, and it looks so raw that it almost undoes me. He stands as I approach the table, and for maybe the first time since I’ve known him, Hayden Sloane looks uncertain and nervous. Two traits I’ve yet to experience with him.
“Hey,” I greet, my voice soft.
“Hey.” The word comes rougher than usual. For one awkward second, neither of us seems to know what should happen next. Do we hug? We’re not familiar with this careful politeness and it’s horrible.
But then Hayden steps closer and settles one warm hand against my waist before pressing a soft kiss against my cheek. The touch is gentle and bit tentative. Like he’s afraid I’ll pull away. My chest physically aches at how careful he’s being.
“You look beautiful,” he states as he slides into the booth across from me instead of beside me. That hurts more than I expect too.
I swallow hard. “You look tired.”
“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth lifts just a fraction. “Sleeping has been a challenge.” Honest, he’s always so honest.
The waiter appears before the moment can become too overwhelming, and pours our usual red wine and asks questions about what we’d like for dinner that evening. I let Hayden order. I didn’t come for the food.
And then… awkwardness. Not terrible awkwardness, just a quiet between us that’s not normal. Like both of us are trying to figure out what version of ourselves exists right now. Hayden watches me over the candlelight for another long second before speaking.
“How are you?” The question catches me off guard because he doesn’t ask if I’m still angry, or if we’re okay. He wants to know how I am.
I stare down at the tablecloth before answering honestly. “Sad.”
His expression tightens on a nod. “Yeah,” his voice low, “me too.”
The simplicity of it nearly wrecks me. No defensiveness or ego attached to the answer. Just more truth.
“I miss you.” I admit before I can lose the nerve. Something flashes across his face so fast it almost hurts to look at.
“Nessa,” his voice roughens around my name. “I’ve missed you every single second of every single hour of every single day of the past week.”
God. The air between us suddenly feels too thin. Hayden scrapes one hand over his jaw before looking down at the whiskey in front of him and then back up at me. “I’ve spent the last week realizing how many parts of my life revolve around you now.”
Emotion catches in my throat, because I know exactly what he means.
“The apartment feels wrong without you in it,” he continues, a frown forming on his mouth. “Everything does.”
I blink back the tears starting to form at the rim of my eyes. Christ. This man.
“I’m trying to learn how to do this better,” he says after another moment. “Not just with us. With everything.”
I stay quiet. Listening. Because everything he’s saying matters.
“I know now that loving you isn’t complete if I keep it hidden away.” His eyes lift fully back to mine. “And I know saying that means nothing if I don’t actually prove it.”
My heart stumbles hard against my ribs. Because this, this right here, is everything I want to hear from him. I don’t need perfection. I just need him to understand.
“I don’t expect you to magically trust me overnight,” His fingers reach across the table and touch the tips of mine. “But I need you to know I heard you, and I love you, all of you, and I don’t want to hide that.”
Tears burn behind my eyes as I realize he really did hear every word I said. He not only listened to every word I said, he heard me. “I know Hayden. I love you too.”
Silence settles for a moment between us afterward, warm and fragile beneath candlelight and wine and the soft music drifting through the restaurant. Then Hayden lets out a long exhale. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
Nerves twist low in my stomach as his expression shifts, his hand sliding from the top of mine to grip onto the tumbler in front of him. He looks more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him before.
“Christmas Eve is…” He pauses like he’s choosing his words carefully. “It’s hard for me.”
The understatement in that sentence alone tells me how significant this moment is. Hayden looks down again for a second before continuing, a slight shake now apparent in his voice. “I go to see my parents every year.”
Something in my chest stills. Because Hayden almost never talks about his family. His eyes lift until they lock back on mine. “And this year,” His voice roughens even more. “I don’t want to do it alone.”
Emotion swells like a tsunami through me. Not because of the invitation itself, but because I understand what it costs him to offer it.
“Would you come with me?”
The question lands like a thud between us. The vulnerability he’s exposing is so much more than Hayden telling me he missed me, or even that he loves me.
This is Hayden opening a door he has kept bolted shut and is now asking me if I’m willing to step through it with him.