Fourteen
Hadley
I slide my toothbrush over my teeth.
The sky is a hazy mass of grays. Buckets of rain aren’t pouring from the sky, and the wind doesn’t sound like it’s two seconds from ripping the stairs off the front of the apartment either. Both were constants all night as I lay on the bed and listened to the weather be as contrary as my feelings.
By the time the rain switched to a drizzle and I finally drifted to sleep, I had worried myself into an emotional coma. Now that it’s morning, or early afternoon if the clock isn’t lying, a sort of peace blankets me. I have no solution to my predicament. There isn’t some grand plan to wrench my heart out of Machlan’s hands. But there does seem to be a confidence that I’ll figure it out and that feels good.
That feels like me.
I spit, rinse, and spit again.
Plucking the toothbrush back in the coffee cup next to the window, I think through a highlight reel of my relationship with Mach. The only consistency throughout the years is that there was always pressure.
Pressure not to be together from Cross.
Pressure to be together as a result of our choices.
Pressure not to be together because things were too hard, and then pressure to be together because it really felt like our final shot.
“Maybe Emily’s right,” I say. “Maybe I just need to let it work itself out.”
The words barely get past my lips before my palm hits my forehead. It sounds so simple to say those words. It seems so easy in concept. But giving up control when it comes to this particular situation is so crazy hard for me.
It’s too important. I’m too vulnerable. There’s too much on the line.
“Ugh.” My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten since the three bites I had of Emily’s frozen lasagna last night. I head to the couch to grab my purse when my phone rings from the table.
I ignored two texts from Samuel last night and one call that could be classified as early morning. Grabbing the device, I sit on the edge of the bed and answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Hadley.”
I wait for a flutter of butterflies or at least a semblance of familiarity at hearing his voice, but nothing changes inside me. I might as well be talking to Cross or Peck.
“How are things going down there?” he asks.
“Oh, they’re good. How about you?”
“Work is killer today. We balanced a couple of accounts this morning and …”
My attention wanes, drifting to a certain tattooed bar owner instead of Samuel’s tales of the accounting tape. I wonder what Mach is doing and what he had for breakfast and if he still sleeps on his right side with a pillow between his legs.
“Am I boring you?” Samuel asks.
“Sorry,” I say, faking a yawn. “It was a long night.”
The line quiets. “I wondered why you didn’t answer. Anyway, I’m glad to hear you’re having fun with your friends.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I scrub a hand down my face. “Are you having fun with yours?”
He laughs, and it pains me a little. The idea of Samuel having friends—the real kind, the kind like he knows I have—shouldn’t be funny.
“We worked until three this morning. I guess the slight conversation we had outside of numbers and figures over cold pizza could be construed as a good time,” he says.
“You need to have more fun. What about that one guy? Ryan? Brian? Whatever his name is. You guys should go out and have some drinks tonight.”
“We’re all too busy. Hey, how’s your brother? I thought of him today. A guy tried to write off his gym membership, and it made me think of Cross’s gyms.”
I flop back on the mattress and think about the awkward meeting between Samuel and Cross a few weeks ago. How Cross kept looking at me like I was crazy, and Samuel couldn’t understand why Cross didn’t want to man-hug when he left.
“He’s good,” I say. “He and Kallie are living together now. They’re pretty happy.”
“That’s good. I bet it’s nice for you to stay there and spend so much time with them while you can.”
“Yeah.” I get to my feet and begin to pace the small room.
A long, awkward silence fills the line. I walk back and forth, passing the table each time, wondering what in the world we’re supposed to talk about.
When did it get this hard to talk to him? Has it always been?
Papers rustle. “Well, that’s good. Do you think you’ll be home when I get back from Salem?”
“Samuel …” I close my eyes and kick myself for answering the phone in the first place.
“I know, I know. You can’t commit right now. But I’m hoping if we get some time away from each other, maybe you’ll change your mind.”
“We’re on a break. We mutually agreed to that.”
He sighs like this conversation is a distraction. “We did, but agreements change. Right? That’s why we took a break and didn’t break up. We can salvage this.”
I stop pacing and look at the wall. Salvage. “What kind of word is that?”
“What kind of word is what?”
“Salvage,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “It’s like garbage. Like a salvage yard where they take parts off old cars or something.”
“It’s a proper term. It means to rescue.”
“I know what it means, Samuel.” I sigh, feeling a weight on my shoulders. “My point is, is that what you want? To salvage our relationship?”
“Frankly, yes. I do. I want to rescue it from its current situation. With a few tweaks, Hadley, I think we can bring it in the black.”
Bring it in the black? I groan, and I know he hears it, but I just can’t make myself care.
I consider the possibility of going back to Vigo and seeing Samuel again. It would be nice. Orderly. Predictable. We’d have date nights on Fridays and intelligent conversations about business. We’d read separately before bed and fall asleep on crisp white sheets. But as my mind drifts to other possibilities, to ornery bar owners and spirited discussions and jokes, the idea of going back seems like turning off my favorite rock song and putting on elevator music.
“I don’t think it’s going to happen, Samuel.”
“Why?”
“Do I make you happy? Really? Do you come home with butterflies in your stomach to see me?”
“That’s the most overused analogy in the history of analogies.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I look forward to coming home every day and seeing you. I get excited to spend the weekend with you. And I can’t wait to get home from this trip and convince you to … maybe move in with me.”
My eyes almost pop out of my head.
“It’ll make things a lot easier,” he says. “I won’t have to rush home so our schedules meet because you’ll be there. And you won’t have to rush into that new job of yours either. I can more than cover our rent and necessities.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Is it not?”
“No. You don’t ask someone to move in because of ease,” I say with a sad smile on my face. “It should be about more.”
“I don’t know how much more you can get than synchronizing our lives.”
I want to tell him about all the more—the staying up late and breaking down the best songs of the nineties. Taking a truck to Bluebird to see if we can get it stuck in the mud. Sitting around a campfire with your friends and telling stories. I would tell him, but I don’t think he’ll understand.
My head hangs. “You know what? I need to go,” I say. “I hope you have a great day.”
“I hope this vegetable juice kicks in soon, or I’ll be dragging all evening.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Hadley.”
I think he’s going to say more, like say I love you, so I end the call before he can. And before I can look at the phone and replay that entire conversation, I grab my purse and head to Carlson’s Bakery for lunch.
I wave to Dave, a little old man who’s driven the same black Ford Ranger since I moved to town. He waves back as he putts down Beecher Street.
Puddles are everywhere. The gutters are full as water streams into the storm drains under the street. Tugging my jacket around my body, I jog across the street to the opposing sidewalk.
The closer I get to Carlson’s, the more the air is scented with cinnamon and freshly baked bread. My stomach rumbles in response.
Just as the bakery comes into view, a clap of thunder cracks above and a downpour of rain comes out of nowhere.
“Ah!” I yell, the cold droplets hitting the pavement and splashing me a second time. I bow my head as if it’ll do any good and speed walk in the direction of Carlson’s. Pausing at the next intersection, I can barely see through all the rain. Just as I start to cross the road, a truck pulls up to the stop sign.
I don’t look over. Before my foot can hit the asphalt, the truck’s engine revs.
“What are you doing?” Machlan’s voice works its way through the rain.
Squinting, I shrug, the water sticking my hair to my face. “Getting lunch.”
“Get in here.” He grins, reaching over the console and opening the passenger’s side door.
I waste no time rushing to the truck. Getting inside requires a little hop, which amuses Machlan to no end. The door closes with a thud barely heard against the weather.
Smoothing my hair away from my face, I watch water drip off every inch of me. “I’m going to soak your truck.”
“I think you already did.” He hits the gas. The truck rips through the intersection before he eases up on the pedal. “Where were you going?”
“Carlson’s.”
“Why didn’t you drive?”
“Fresh air, I guess.”
“That worked out well for ya.”
He watches me out of the corner of his eye before reaching forward and adjusting the temperature. The air warms immediately, and I relax back in the soft leather as we roll through town.