Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Hailey
My stomach clenches as I stand from the booth and walk to the front of the Salty Salmon, waiting by the door while Jason settles our tab. The woman I saw flirting with him earlier is nowhere to be seen.
While I can admit it didn’t look like he was returning her attention, I don’t entirely understand why not. I mean, she was gorgeous, obviously knew who he was and why he’s such a big deal.
Whereas me? I know who he is because he was friends with my brother since I was a baby.
I don’t know anything about hockey—or, I didn’t until very recently, anyway.
And I still don’t feel like I know much despite Marissa’s best efforts.
I spend half of every game peppering her with questions.
Fortunately, she’s a good sport about it.
God, and I’m such a shit friend that I left without even saying anything to her.
Goddammit, Hailey. You were going to be better than that. Remember?
Annoyed, I pull out my phone to send her a quick text.
Thanks for everything tonight. I really appreciate you answering all my inane hockey questions. Sorry for bailing so fast, but Jason and I have some things we need to take care of at home
There. Not too much info, but at least an explanation so I don’t seem like such an asshole.
Marissa
Ha! Don’t worry about it at all. And I don’t mind helping you understand hockey. Also, I gave your number to my sister. Hope that’s okay! See you soon! Have fun with Jason! ;-D
Uh, sure. Thanks for giving my number to your sister!
Fingers crossed that turns into something productive. Or high paying. Or, y’know, paying anything at all.
Of course! Always happy to help a friend!
I heart react to her comment because I don’t know how to respond in words. I feel … hopeful? Happy? But also even more anxious.
How far would her help extend? To letting me crash at her place for a while if things with Jason go horribly, horribly wrong?
“Ready?” Jason asks, nearly making me jump, so wrapped up was I in my own thoughts and worries.
“Yup. Let’s go.”
He holds the door for me, but makes no move to hold my hand or anything once we’re outside.
It’s like we’re strangers. Which is the weirdest feeling in the world.
Jason’s never felt like a stranger to me, not even when I was trying to pretend he was one that night I delivered his food and my car broke down.
But the ease we’ve always had with each other has evaporated. I hate it, but I don’t know how—or if it’s even possible—to fix it.
Most of the ride to his place passes in silence. I assume that he’s waiting until we’re back there to start The Conversation. Yes, it’s capitalized. It’s grown to feel like it’s a proper noun, not just a set time for open communication.
This is a Conversation that will potentially change our lives—my life—permanently. Irrevocably.
So many of those changes have happened without conversations, maybe it’s good that this one will be preceded by one. Even coming here, getting married, all of these irrevocable, life-changing choices happened with mostly spur-of-the-moment decisions. Not scheduled, adult Conversations.
I’m honestly not even sure if I know how to have this kind of Conversation. Have I ever had one?
Sort of, I think. With my mom, when I asked her for help. But I canceled the meeting where I was going to be presented with their contract. That would’ve been a capital-C Conversation more than any of the other times we talked.
Speaking of my parents, I didn’t notice if my mom responded to my earlier text. Should I look now? Or wait until later?
Will it matter later, though?
After this, there might not even be a reception for them to come to.
Maybe Jason will decide that woman at the bar would be a better choice after all—or any of the millions of women just like her who I’m sure he could find that don’t have my baggage, my hangups, my problems—and this will all be over.
Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment, but I can’t help it. I need to know if she responded.
Opening my phone, I tap back out of Marissa’s texts and see there’s a new one from my mom.
Holding my breath, I open it, though the preview isn’t very inspiring.
Mom
I don’t know what you expect me to say to that
That’s it. That’s all she said.
I let out my breath in a huff.
“Who are you texting?” Jason asks, his voice low and restrained, like he’s … I dunno, angry? Irritated?
Brows together, I glance at him. “What? No one.”
He huffs, somewhere between a snort and a laugh, but clearly communicating his disbelief. “You were texting before we left the Salmon, and now your phone’s out again. Just tell me who it is. Jenkins?”
My head jerks back in shock. “Jenkins?” I ask in disbelief. “Why would you think I’m texting Jenkins?”
“That’s not a no,” he grumbles.
I blink at him for a few seconds, unable to stop my laugh of disbelief. “Oh my god, are you serious right now? No, I’m not texting Jenkins. Why would you assume that?”
He shrugs one shoulder, smoothly making the turn onto his street. “You seemed pretty cozy tonight. Maybe you’d rather be spending time with him.”
“We were talking,” I say, fighting for calmness. “I thought you wanted me to be friends with your teammates.”
He mumbles something that I can’t quite make out, other than, “… fucking Jenkins …”
Pulling in a deep breath, I release it slowly. “I was texting with Marissa before we left because I felt bad for leaving without saying goodbye,” I say in the same kind of restrained tone he used just a second ago. “Were you jealous that I was talking to Jenkins?”
His jaw works, and he pulls into the parking garage of his building, waiting until he’s pulled into his parking spot, thrown the shifter to park, and killed the engine before turning to face me, letting me see the mix of frustration and anger on his face.
“Goddammit, yes, I was. I was! You were laughing with him, looking all gorgeous and carefree, and you’ll barely glance at me.
How else am I supposed to feel when one of the most notorious players on our team is flirting with you? ”
That has me blinking at him again, doing my best to assemble all of those words into something coherent in my brain.
It’s not that his words are incoherent, exactly, they’re just so unexpected, especially that he thinks I’m gorgeous, feels like he has reason to be jealous, and that Jenkins is a player.
I mean, aren’t they all players? They’re hockey play—oh. OOHHH. That kind of player. Right.
“Okay. Sorry.” I hold my hand up, palm out. “I’m sorry, I just need a second here. You thought I was interested in Jenkins?”
His jaw flexes, but that’s a clear yes.
I shake my head. “So that’s why you felt the need to come over and basically pee a circle around me?”
“Gross! I would never—”
“Metaphorically. Not literally. Obviously. But like a dog marking his territory.” He grunts, and I sigh.
“I have no interest in Jenkins. He’s nice enough, of course, and we had a nice conversation—at least until you butted in—but he wasn’t trying to make a move on me, and I wasn’t flirting with him. ”
He grunts again and looks away. “Okay, fine.” He stares out the windshield for a few breaths, then, “I wasn’t flirting with that woman either.”
I chew on my bottom lip. I could tell he wasn’t, so that’s not really news. “I know,” I say softly after a second. “You could, though. If you wanted to.”
The look he gives me is pure revulsion. “Why would I want to do that?”
Shrugging, I scoot as far back in my seat as I can, crossing my arms tightly across my chest. “She’s pretty. Clearly interested in you. Probably knows something about hockey.”
“Okay,” he says slowly after a long moment stretches between us, and I finally look at him again. “And?”
I shrug again. “I doubt she’s as much of a hot mess as I am,” I mutter.
He lets out a single bark of laughter, like I caught him off guard. “Well, you’re right that you’re hot,” he counters, “but I wouldn’t call you a mess.”
I gape at him. “You—what? That’s ridiculous. I have been one mess after another for over a decade. Hell, my whole life, if we’re being honest. I was never as perfect as Hunter, the golden boy, the star athlete who was taken too young. The one who shouldn’t have died.”
“No,” Jason says slowly, “Hunter shouldn’t have died.
It was tragic and awful, and yes, he died too young.
But you say that like there was someone who should’ve died instead.
” When I just look away, looking out the passenger window, Jason reaches over and brushes his finger on my arm.
“Who, Hailey? Who do you think should’ve been the one who died? ”
“Well, I don’t think so, but my parents obviously would’ve preferred if it had been me.
” I choke on the last words, and they come out as barely a whisper, the tears flooding my eyes faster than I can blink them away.
“I was the afterthought, the mistake. Always two steps behind—too slow, too messy, too loud, too … everything. Artistic. Flighty. Disorganized. Emotional. Too much of the wrong things and not enough of the right ones. When I cried about Hunter, I’d get told that I didn’t have the right to be as upset as they were.
When I wanted to do anything—play in the youth symphony, take private lessons, audition for All State, audition for Lawrence—I was told how Hunter would’ve done better, been better, cared more about sports and athletics and less about music and books. ”
Jason makes a pained noise in his throat that draws my attention, interrupting my monologue of pain and shame.
“See?” I add, uncrossing my arms so I can dash the tears from my face. “I can’t even hold together a relationship with someone whose sole purpose is to rescue me from myself. I’m beyond hope. Beyond help. Not even you can save me, Jason. And I don’t blame you for not wanting to try anymore.”
“What? What are you even talking about?”
“This!” I cry, flinging my arms out. “Us! This whole thing. It started with you wanting to save me, and to say I needed saving would be an understatement. I was drowning, and I didn’t know what to do.
You tossed me a lifeline, and even then, I was still suspicious, wasn’t I?
Taking my time to decide, arguing with you, the whole time wondering what’s in it for you?
And all you’d say is you made a promise to Hunter and you felt bad for not keeping it.
So, okay. Guilt. That was your motivator. ”
He grunts, but it’s not a sound of disagreement.
“Wasn’t it? Am I wrong? I know I always assume the worst, but you even said that yourself.”
“No,” he says quietly after a moment. “You’re not wrong.
But it wasn’t …” He rubs his hand across his chin, his stubble scraping in the quiet of the car.
“It wasn’t that cut and dry, either. Yes, I felt bad that I’d left you alone for so long, barely checking in when I’d promised Hunter I’d look out for you.
I should’ve been more present, I should’ve known sooner that your parents had basically abandoned you.
They didn’t seem like they were ignoring you the times I visited.
In fact, I assumed the opposite. They seemed way overprotective, not wanting to leave you alone with me.
It made me wonder if somehow they’d blamed me for Hunter’s death. ”
I snort. “Honestly? They might’ve. Not rationally.
Obviously you didn’t give him a brain tumor.
But …” I spread my hands in front of me in a gesture of helplessness.
“You were there. You were one of the first ones to notice when he started having trouble. You were the one who encouraged him to get checked out. You were around at the hospital. You were always there, with Hunter. And even if they didn’t actually blame you, you reminded them of him.
And they …” My breath hitches, and I clamp my lips together to stop the sob escaping my throat.
“They shut down. After. After the funeral, they barely mentioned him. They’ve been practically pretending like he never existed ever since.
They took down all the photos with him. They boxed up and got rid of all his things.
I managed to save a couple of things for myself—his class ring, some of the photos, his letter jacket, nothing much.
Stuff I could hide in my room, either safely blended in with my own things or kept where they wouldn’t see it, and thus wouldn’t want to get rid of it. ”
“God, Hailey.” He says, arresting the flow of my words. “Oh my god. That’s so fucking awful. That’s just—” He cuts off, his hand over his mouth like he won’t let himself give voice to whatever’s in his mind.
I lift my hands, palms up. “Yeah.” My voice breaks.
“It was. Honestly, I’ve talked about Hunter more since you showed up than I have in the whole rest of my life since he died.
Talking about him at home was forbidden, and so I got used to just …
not mentioning him. At all. When I went to college, it was easier not to mention my dead brother.
” I let out a choked laugh, even though nothing’s funny. “I mean, imagine those conversations.”
“God,” he repeats. “Just … fuck.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that pretty well sums it up.”
He draws in a shaky breath, and the nervous part of me wants to keep talking.
It’s the part that always hopes that if I talk enough, explain enough, that someone will listen, will believe me, and will understand.
But I clamp my lips together and brace myself for his reaction.
I’ve said plenty. Now I need to let him respond.