Chapter 8 Hailey #2
I want… comfortable. I want the way his presence settled the entire room like gravity. I want that excited, butterflies in my belly anticipation while I wait for him to come over. I keep picturing him in all of these scenarios. I want the wrong thing. Obviously.
I finish my wine and cue up a Christmas movie for background noise. My phone sits face down on the coffee table. I stare at it, my foot bouncing nervously as I chew the edge of my thumb nervously. I cave and reach for it, flipping it over.
Be brave, I tell myself, pulse thudding as I pull up the text thread between Cole and me from earlier this week. My thumbs hover. Then move… and that’s when I type the message that detonates my quiet night.
If you ever want to grab a drink, I owe you one for saving my life from the failed furniture assembly asylum.
The words sit there unsent while my pulse jackhammers in my throat. It’s friendly. Totally normal. Perfectly reasonable. Until I hit send.
“Shit.”
I drop the phone like it burned me, face-plant into the couch pillow, and let out the kind of strangled groan usually reserved for horror movies. There’s nothing I can do about it now. I don’t even have any friends here yet that I could “pretend” I was texting and tell him it was sent by mistake.
Why would I text that? I should have stopped after the drink line!
The silence of my apartment feels louder after that little whoosh sound. Even the characters in the Christmas movie on my TV feel like they’re judging me.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “You are a confident, independent adult, Hailey Simpson. You can manage a friendly drink with your best friend’s brother… who also happens to be my exact type all of a sudden.”
A confident, independent adult who just booty-texted her best friend’s brother.
I sit up, grab my wineglass, and gulp half of it in one swallow, my foot still tapping nervously like I’m practicing a tap dance routine. Another gulp can’t hurt.
The phone stays dark. Still no response. Of course it does. He’s not sitting around waiting for my random, awkward invitation. He’s probably doing something rugged and adult—building a cabin, chopping wood, brooding in some corner with a woman who would know exactly how to handle a man like him.
I try to scroll through Instagram to distract myself but all I see are cozy couples under twinkle lights. Engagement rings. Matching pajamas. My chest tightens.
“Ugh, gimme a break.”
I thought I was doing okay with being alone. But the silence here is way more deafening than I anticipated, and the loneliness is starting to feel like a heavy cloud that’s settling over me quickly.
Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he saw it and is ignoring me. Maybe he’s seeing someone and now I’m that girl.
“Okay.” I close the app and toss my phone down before I spiral further. “This is getting pathetic.”
I walk to the kitchen and pour the rest of the bottle into my glass. It’s not just the familiarity of home that I miss; it’s also the feeling of community that I no longer have here.
“Whatever,” I lie out loud, pacing the tiny living room. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Totally fine.”
Ten minutes pass and I’m halfway through overanalyzing the way I arranged my Christmas candle collection when my phone pings. I pause, my wineglass halfway to my lips. I’m staring at my phone that’s lying on my coffee table with Cole’s name on it.
Cole: Where am I meeting you?
My heart stops. I blink once. Twice.
“WHAT?” My voice ricochets off the bare walls. I reread the message three times just to confirm I didn’t hallucinate it. I meant sometime in the future. I didn’t expect him to agree to tonight.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I set the glass down so hard wine sloshes onto the rug. “This is not happening.”
I stare at the message like it might self-destruct. My fingers hover over the keyboard, trying to decide if I tell him I’m already way too deep into a bottle of wine and I meant another night, but then I run the risk of him never agreeing again.
Another buzz.
Cole: There’s a bar near your building called The Copper Tap. Seven okay?
My lungs forget how to function. I fumble for the TV remote as if silence will somehow help me make the right decision.
My reflection stares back at me in the dark TV screen and it’s a mess.
My hair is in a frizzy bun, my hoodie is stained with cabernet, and my all-day makeup is practically melting off my face.
“Hailey Simpson,” I whisper, pointing at the reflection. “You cannot show up like that.”
I grab my phone again, thumb trembling over the keyboard. It’s 6:41 and I have no idea how long of a walk this place is from me, but I’ll figure it out.
Me: Sure, The Copper Tap works. See you soon.
The moment it delivers, I run to the bathroom, turn on the water, and take another hard look at myself in the mirror. “Okay,” I breathe, gripping the edge of the bathroom sink. “You are not going to panic. You are going to shower, pick an outfit, and act like a normal person.”
I glance at my reflection again, then immediately cover my face with both hands. “Oh God. I’m going to panic.”
I take what has to be a record-breaking shower, then dart into my bedroom and fling open my closet like most of my clothes aren’t still stuck in boxes around my room.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
I trip over a pile of clothes spilling from one box and land on another with a loud thud.
I paw through the boxes, looking for the one labeled jeans, and tear it open.
I grab my faithful pair of black jeans, the ones that make my waist look tiny and my ass look like you could bounce a quarter off it.
The jeans will look lethal paired with a fitted cream sweater that dips just enough at the neckline to look effortlessly chic with just a touch of sexy décolletage. I tug on a single thigh boot, then immediately rip it off.
“Jesus, get it together,” I mutter, hopping around on one foot. “Trying way too hard.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror and groan. My hair looks like I stuck a fork in a socket. I grab the curling wand and start damage control, burning one finger in the process.
I swipe on mascara, dab concealer over a few spots, and slick on my favorite red gloss. I smile at my reflection, impressed that I managed to pull this together so quickly, and then I look down and realize I’m still wearing my hoodie.
“Focus, Hailey.”
I yank it over my head, scurrying back into my bedroom to put on a bra.
When I finally swap into my sweater, I look marginally like someone who could survive social interaction…
Maybe even flirt. The thought sends a thrill through me so strong it almost knocks the breath out of my lungs. I try to rationalize it in my head.
It’s just a drink. Just a thank-you. Just two adults being polite.
But the image of his hand steadying my waist last weekend flashes in my head, and every rational thought combusts.
I grab my purse, check for wallet, keys, lip gloss, then check again because the cheap grocery store wine I used as therapy earlier is rapidly turning into a poor choice.
I’m reaching for my coat when Cole texts again.
Cole: Leaving now.
Every muscle in my body tightens. I grab my coat as I half laugh, half squeal into the empty room. “Oh, this is happening.” I take one last look at myself in the mirror above my console table, fingers gripping the doorknob.
“It’s a drink. With Cole. Maddie’s brother. Nothing more.”