9. Hallie #3
The words blur together on the page, swimming in and out of focus no matter how many times I blink to clear my vision.
I read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single sentence, my mind refusing to cooperate with this charade of normalcy I'm attempting to maintain.
The story might as well be written in another language for all the comprehension I'm managing right now.
My phone goes off against the coffee table, the vibration loud in the apartment.
I lunge for it so fast I nearly fall off the couch. Please be Caius. Please be Caius. Please?—
Mom: Don't forget to pick up your grandmother tomorrow at 2 PM for the rehearsal!
I let out a long breath and type back a confirmation, then toss the phone onto the cushion beside me. This is pathetic. I'm pathetic. Sitting here waiting for a man to text me like some tragic figure in a Victorian novel, wasting away by the window.
Except I'm the one who created this situation. I'm the one who panicked and pushed him away. I'm the one who's too scared to fix it.
The hours crawl by. I attempt to watch TV but can't follow the plot.
I try writing, my secret vice, the spicy fanfiction I'd die before admitting to anyone, but even my fictional characters won't cooperate tonight.
They just stare at each other longingly without doing anything about it, which hits way too close to home.
By the time eleven PM rolls around, my eyes are burning from staring at the TV screen without actually watching anything, and my neck aches from the tension I've been carrying in my shoulders all evening.
I'm seriously considering admitting defeat and dragging myself to bed, not that I'll sleep, but at least I can pretend to be doing something productive like resting, when my phone alerts against the couch cushion beside me.
The sound makes me jolt, my entire body going rigid with sudden, desperate hope.
I snatch it up with trembling fingers, my heart already racing before I even look at the screen.
This time, it's not my mom.
Caius: I cant fake this anymore hal
My breath stops. The message is timestamped 11:47 PM, and even through the screen I can tell he's been drinking. The lack of punctuation, the missing apostrophe, the raw honesty he'd never let slip when sober.
I read the words until they blur, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What do I say? What can I possibly say that won't make this worse?
Three dots appear on the screen beneath his message. He's typing. My heart leaps into my throat, pulse hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Then the dots disappear.
I look at my phone, willing them to come back. Seconds tick by, five, ten, fifteen, each one feeling like an eternity. My chest tightens with anticipation, with fear, with something that feels dangerously close to hope.
Then the dots appear again. He's still there. Still trying to find the words for whatever he needs to say.
My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. I press one hand against my sternum as if that might slow it down, might keep me from flying apart completely.
I wait, frozen on my couch, phone gripped so tightly in my other hand that my fingers ache.
I'm barely breathing, afraid that even the smallest movement might somehow jinx this moment, might make him change his mind and disappear into the safety of silence.
The dots vanish again.
I gaze at the empty space where they were, where his unfinished thought hangs suspended between us. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, desperate to type something, anything that might coax the rest of his confession into the light. But I can't. I'm paralyzed by what might come next.
No new message comes.
"Come on," I whisper to the screen. "Don't leave me hanging. Say it. Whatever it is, just say it."
But the silence stretches on, thick and suffocating, and I realize he's waiting for me to respond first. To give him some sign that it's safe to finish whatever confession he started.
My thumbs shake as I type.
Me: Where are you?
The response is immediate.
Caius: Ryans bachelor party. downtown bar.
Caius: everyone keeps asking where my girlfriend is
Caius: i keep forgetting shes not real
Oh god. Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm grabbing my keys and shoving my feet into sneakers. I don't change out of my yoga pants. I don't fix my hair or put on makeup or do any of the things Good Girl Hallie would do before leaving the house.
I just go.
The drive downtown takes twelve minutes that feel like twelve hours. I park half a block from Riley's, the only bar in town that stays open past midnight, and spot Ryan's truck in the lot along with several others I recognize. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white.
What am I doing? I can't just crash the bachelor party. Ryan will know something's up. Everyone will know.
My phone vibrates in the cupholder.
Caius: i miss you
Caius: i miss my best friend
The tears come hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them. Because that's the worst part, isn't it? I didn't just ruin the potential for something more. I ruined the friendship too. The easy comfort, the inside jokes, the way he looked at me like I was someone worth seeing.
I swipe at my face with my sleeve, taking a shaky breath. Then another.
Then I get out of the car.