Chapter 35 Hayes
Hayes
I tell myself this is a good idea.
It’s not a grand gesture; it’s coffee.
Simple.
Easy.
What could possibly go wrong?
Loon Landing Café is three blocks from the city hall, where the rec department has its offices, my Google search confirmed—which means I could casually show up with a latte in hand before she even hears I’m back in town and say something easy like:
Hey. I’m in town for a few days and thought I would . . .
Hey. I missed you more than I wanted to . . .
Benny says hi . . .
Hey. I should have kissed you goodbye longer and not let you leave . . .
I push through the coffee shop door, the bell tinkling like a penny in a mason jar, my bomber jacket dripping with a thin line of Seattle rain. Stepping forward to order, I rack my brain for Layla’s previous orders and give the young woman behind the counter a tight smile.
My pulse throbs as I repeat my order, scared to fuck it up. But it’s the thought that counts, yeah? She’s going to be shocked and—
I’m not nervous.
I’m not.
All lies—I’m humming like a live wire. Charged. Heart pounding too hard. Fingers clumsy as I reach for the drinks the barista sets down. One glance through the rain-smeared windows shows an empty sidewalk—no surprise with this miserable weather.
Winter’s coming. Benny will lose her mind over the snow.
I pivot to go—
—and plow into a small body.
Both cups seesaw. I twist, catching them before they swan dive, a hot ribbon of latte licking over my knuckles, spilling to the floor.
“Sorry—” I start, automatically.
“Hayes?” a shocked voice asks.
Layla.
My eyes drink her in, and my first instinct is to take her in my arms and hug her to my body, but her face is registering such stunned astonishment—and not the good kind—that I resist temptation.
She’s beautiful. Red wool coat, red cap with a flirty, fur pom-pom, hair slipping free in glossy waves. Wind-kissed cheeks. Lips the soft pink I’ve missed having my mouth on.
“W-what are you doing here?”
“I . . .” Feel like a fucking asshole. “Came to see you.”
Her eyes flick from the cups in my hands. “You came to see me?”
I swallow. The lines I practiced on my way here feel idiotic now, jangling around in my head like loose change, but now would be the perfect time to answer her rather than standing here with my dick in my hand.
“Of course I came to see you. What else would I come to Star Lake for?”
Her lips part. “I . . . but . . . why?”
“Because I missed you,” I say, too honest, too fast. “Because I should’ve kissed you longer before I left.”
Her mouth parts; confusion and something warmer chase across her face. “You flew here to say hi?”
Yes.
No.
“No.” I shake my head.
Her lips part.
“Can we go to dinner? I’d love to discuss all the things we should have discussed before you left Arizona.”
She doesn’t move. Just blinks like her brain’s malfunctioning and does not compute my presence, or my words.
“I know it’s unfair to show up unannounced, and trust me, my coach is pissed,” I add, gentler. “So if tonight doesn’t work, then we can do it tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“Hayes . . .” My name is a catch on her breath. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“I miss you, Layla.” I whisper. “If we could—”
The bell behind her tings. A voice behind me cuts clean through the moment.
“Hey, you.”
I watch in slow motion as a large masculine dude puts his arm around her waist.
Tall. Beard. Flannel. The kind of guy on Pacific Northwest postcards. The fingers of his hand brushing the sleeve of her red coat, and the tiny, reflexive way she leans toward him knock the air out of my lungs.
Layla goes still. Eyes wide.
My face is a polite mask; my ribs are a breaking board.
She looks between us, scrambling for neutral ground that doesn’t exist. “Grady—this is Hayes.”
Well. This just got real fucking awkward.
“Hayes.” He already has his hand out for a shake, his other one not moving from her waist. The shake is solid, no malice in it.
He looks like the kind of guy who can fix a cabinet hinge before breakfast, climb a mountain at noon, then cook a three-course meal on the summit without breaking a sweat. “Good to meet you.”
“Yeah.” My voice is rougher than I want. I’m trying not to be a jealous prick—swear to God I am—but the effort scrapes at my throat.
This is so fucking far from how I pictured this going.
His gaze drops, casual but cutting, to the two cups in my hand. To her name written on the lid. To the thin thread of latte drying across my knuckles. And in that quick flicker, he understands; he knows exactly what I flew hundreds of miles to do.
“I’ll grab you some napkins,” Grady says easily, strolling toward the counter. He leaves her with me, like he’s testing the situation.
The silence that falls is brutal.
“You came to talk?” she asks finally, voice quiet. “Is that what this is?”
I nod robotically, glancing over her shoulder at the guy she’s now seeing. “I had no idea you were seeing someone seriously.” A beat. “I wanted you to know I . . .”
I can’t finish my sentence.
Seriously, what would be the point? She’s got a mountain man of a boyfriend now. What does she want with a single father who doesn’t even live in the same zip code?
Her mouth purses, the kind of expression that cuts deeper than raised voices ever could. “You haven’t called.”
“I know.”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“I know,” I repeat, the cups hot against my fingers. “I’m sorry.” I step back, tossing them into a nearby trash bin, unable to stomach the thought of bringing one of them to my lips. “You’re right—I shouldn’t have come.”
It feels like I just threw away the last chance I had.
Her brow pinches beneath the brim of her red hat. “I didn’t say you shouldn’t have come. I’m just . . .” She exhales. “I’m confused, Hayes.”
My fault.
Totally my fault.
Guilt is a luxury I can’t afford. I’m built for snap decisions and clean cuts—first and ten, first down, if something’s not right for Benny, I change the plan. No second-guessing. In my world, hesitation gets you benched or, worse, hurt.
But guilt is what I feel in this moment. Not guilty for wanting Layla. I’m guilty for how I didn’t tell her. For modeling the exact kind of behavior I don’t want Benny to think is love.
“I understand,” I say, swallowing my pride.
Digging the hotel key card from my pocket, I thumb the raised letters and hold it toward her. “I’m at the lodge, room 402. If you want to talk, I’ll be there tonight. If you don’t . . .” My chest tightens. “I’m glad I got to see you.”
She stares down at it. Remains still.
That’s when Grady returns. The bastard brings a brown paper bag that’s obviously baked goods, holding it between us like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He breaks the silence with his irritatingly deep drawl.
Who is This Fucking Guy?
“Blueberry muffin,” he tells us. “They were out of chocolate.”
“Tragedy,” I say sarcastically, stuffing the room key back into my pocket. I back up a step, having worn out my welcome, then another, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “All right, well. Take care.”
She barely bobs her head. “You too.”
I cut across the lot and climb inside the rental truck; the world goes quiet except for my breathing and the dull thud in my chest. Steering wheel, meet forehead.
I rest there a second, eyes closed. “You fucking idiot.”
I put my palms over my eyes until tears threaten.
“You are not going to cry,” I say. Sniffling. Sitting up again, wiping my nose. “Here’s the plan. You go to the lodge, you sit in the lobby like a normal person and have a fucking drink. You do not text her—she has a new boyfriend. This is fine, everything is fine.”
Benny and I will be fine.
Things will eventually go back to normal, when it was just me and her and that was all I needed. None of this love bullshit.
Layla doesn’t need you. Or want you.
My eyes burn.
Because I’m weak, I thumb open my phone. Our last text thread sits there, having petered out days and days ago. I stare at it several seconds, pissed at myself for letting the conversation die.
I start the ignition and turn the heat up. Idle the engine.
Open a text to Skylar with the intention of updating Benny, but what the hell do I tell her? I cannot very well say Layla Has a Boyfriend. She’s already replaced me, Dad fucked up! Big shocker!
Still. She’s the one person I can text without making everything worse.
Me:
Hey Skylar—can you let Benny know all is well and that I’m going to bring supplies home for Slime? She’s been begging for a gallon of glue and I’m weak, so I’ll bring some home.
Send.
I toss my phone to the passenger seat and back the truck out, the urge to head straight back to the airport strong.
The wipers thump slow across the windshield. Main Street blurs—strings of early lights, a carved wooden loon pointing tourists toward the lake, a couple in matching raincoats sharing an umbrella, and a sign on the art store that shouts, Fall Wreath WorkShop Here!
Awww.
Barf.
I’m never coming back to this fucking town.