10. Caius
CAIUS
The bachelor party is a blur of noise and bodies and Ryan clapping me on the shoulder while I try to remember how to smile like nothing's wrong.
I'm three beers deep when I send the first text. Five when I send the second. By the time I tell her I miss her, I'm stone-cold sober again, the alcohol burning off under my honesty.
My phone stays dark. No response. No typing dots. Nothing.
I shove it back in my pocket and focus on the conversation happening around me.
Ryan's college roommate is telling some story about a road trip gone wrong, and everyone's laughing, but I can't track the words.
My brain keeps circling back to those unanswered messages, to the image of Hallie sitting alone somewhere, reading what I wrote and deciding I'm not worth the trouble.
"Caius, man, you good?" Ryan leans in closer, cutting through the noise of the bar around us, his eyes narrowed with the kind of concern I don't deserve. There's a crease between his brows that reminds me of Hallie when she's worried, and I have to look away.
"Yeah. Just tired." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, metallic and wrong, mixing with the lingering flavor of cheap beer.
I meet his eyes when I say it, though, because Ryan knows me too well.
He can spot my bullshit from a mile away, has been able to since we were kids and I'd show up at his house with bruises I'd blame on skateboarding accidents that never happened.
The least I can do is sell this one properly.
He studies me for a beat longer than comfortable, then nods. "We're probably wrapping up soon anyway. Most of these guys have early flights tomorrow."
I nod, relieved. I need to get out of here. Need air. Need to stop checking my phone every thirty seconds like a lovesick teenager.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the parking lot watching taillights disappear down Main Street. Ryan offers me a ride, but I tell him I'm walking. Need to clear my head. He accepts this without question because Ryan's always accepted me without question, and the guilt sits heavy in my gut.
I walk. Not toward home. My feet carry me down familiar streets, past the diner where Hallie and I used to split fries after her shift at the library, past the park where she taught me how to parallel park when I was seventeen and terrified of the driving test.
I end up outside the library without meaning to.
The lights are still on. Gold spilling through the tall windows onto the sidewalk, warm against the cool spring night.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs because I know those lights.
Know Hallie stays late on Friday nights to reshelf the week's returns without patrons asking her where the bathroom is every five minutes.
My phone says 8:47 PM. She closes at nine.
I should go home. Should let her have her space. Should respect the boundaries she tried to set this morning when she called what we did a mistake.
I'm walking through the front door before I finish the thought.
The library smells like old paper and lemon furniture polish and something floral that's probably whatever lotion Hallie keeps in her desk drawer. The main floor is empty, the circulation desk abandoned, but I hear movement from the back. The soft thud of books finding shelves.
I walk toward the sound on quiet feet, past the new releases and the romance section that makes me think of her nightstand, of all those novels stacked beside her bed like a roadmap to what she wants.
She's in the biography section. Of course she is.
Hallie stands on the bottom rung of the rolling ladder, stretching to slide a thick hardcover into its spot on the top shelf.
She's wearing those yoga pants that drive me insane, the ones that hug every curve, and an oversized cardigan that keeps slipping off one shoulder.
Her hair's piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and she's humming something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like Tupac.
I stop walking. Just watch her for a second, this girl who's been at the center of my world since I was fifteen years old and didn't know what to do with the feeling.
She reaches higher, going up on her toes, the ladder shifting slightly beneath her weight.
The wheels give the smallest lurch to the left, just enough to make my stomach clench, just enough to remind me that she's too far off the ground for my comfort.
My hands twitch at my sides, resisting the urge to close the distance and grab her before gravity can.
"Careful." The word sounds like a warning, like a plea, like all the other things I can't say to her out loud.
Hallie spins around so fast she nearly falls. I move without thinking, closing the area in three strides, my hands finding her waist to steady her. She gasps, her palms landing flat against my chest.
"Caius." My name comes out breathless, shaky, like she's just run a mile instead of climbed a library ladder. Her eyes are wide behind those glasses, catching the dim overhead lights. "What are you doing here?"
The question hangs between us, and I realize I'm still holding her.
My hands spanning her waist, her palms pressed flat where my heart's hammering hard enough that she's got to feel it through the thin cotton of my t-shirt.
I should let go. Put a gap between us. But my body won't cooperate with what my head knows is right.
"You didn't answer my texts." The words come out low, rough. Accusing, maybe, when I've got no right to be. I sent three. Then five. Then I stopped counting because the silence felt like an answer all on its own.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, twisting the fabric, holding on like she needs the anchor as much as I do. Those big hazel eyes search my face, looking for something I'm afraid to let her find. "I came to find you," she whispers.
My heart stumbles, trips over itself, forgets how to beat properly. "What?"
"I drove to Riley's, but you were already gone by the time I..." She trails off, her teeth catching her bottom lip. "I came here to think. To work. To stop myself from doing something stupid."
"Like what?" The question scrapes out of my throat, barely more than a rasp. I need to hear her say it. Need her to put words to whatever reckless impulse brought her here in the middle of the night.
Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, until her fingers thread through the hair at the nape of my neck. The touch sends electricity down my spine. "Like this."
Then she pulls me down to her and kisses me.
It's not soft. Not careful. It's all the things we haven't said crashing together in one breath and the next.
I kiss her back with everything I've been holding in for weeks, months, years.
My hands slide up her back, pressing her closer, and she makes this small desperate sound against my mouth that short-circuits every rational thought.
I break away just far enough to speak. "We need to talk."
"No." She's already reaching for me again, her eyes dark and wanting. "I'm done talking. Talking is what got us into this mess."
"Hal—"
"I don't want to think about what this means or what happens Monday or how we're going to tell Ryan." Her voice shakes. "I just want you. Right now. Is that allowed?"
I should say no. Should pump the brakes and make her listen while I explain that last night wasn't casual for me, that none of this has ever been casual.
Instead, I turn and walk to the front entrance. The deadbolt clicks into place with a finality that makes my pulse race. When I turn back, Hallie's watching me from the biography section, her chest rising and falling too fast.
I cross the space in long strides.
"This isn't a mistake," I tell her, backing her up against the bookshelf. "Last night. This. None of it."
"Caius—"
"I'm not good enough for you." The words rip out of me. "I know that. You deserve someone with a college degree and a trust fund and all the things I can't give you. But I can't let you think that being with you meant nothing to me."
Her eyes go wide. "You think you're not good enough for me?"
"I'm a mechanic with grease under his fingernails who lives in a converted barn." I cup her face in my hands. "You're brilliant and kind and so far out of my league it's not even funny."
"Stop." She covers my hands with hers, her fingers trembling slightly as they press against my knuckles. "Stop saying that. Stop putting yourself down like you're not worth anything."
I try to pull away, to give her space, but she tightens her grip on my hands, keeping them pressed against her cheeks. My thumbs are still resting along her jaw, and I can feel the flutter of her pulse beneath her soft skin.
"It's true, though." The admission tastes bitter on my lips. "It's always been true, Hal. I'm not?—"
"No, it's not." Fire sparks in her voice.
"You're loyal and protective and you fix things.
Not just cars. People. You fixed me when Kyle left.
You fixed your mom when your dad walked out.
You fix everything broken that crosses your path, and you act like that doesn't matter because you didn't go to college. "
The words land like punches. Good ones. The kind that wakes you up.
"And for the record?" She rises onto her toes, bringing her mouth close to mine. "I've had the guy with the trust fund. He was boring. He made me feel small. You make me feel like I could take on the world."
"Hal—" My voice cracks on her name, raw and uncertain.
"Shut up," she whispers, her breath warm against my lips, her eyes locked on mine and makes my heart stammer, "and kiss me."
So I do.
This time when our mouths meet, there's nothing held back. I kiss her like I've wanted to for thirteen years, deep and claiming and desperate. She opens for me immediately, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees weak.