Hate You, Maybe, page 22
An ache spreads through my body, and I can’t help wishing she were here with me. As messed up as we were, as much as her choices hurt, she’s still my mother. “Dexter happened.”
My eyes well up.
“I don’t know what that means. Did this Dexter person do something to you?”
“Yes.” I sniffle. “He gave me forehead kisses. And a scalp massage. And he put Band-Aids on my blisters. And he made me have … hope.” I end on a gulping sob.
“Aww. What were you hoping for, baby?”
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Everything,” I wail, and Madelyn drops a napkin dispenser in front of me. Setting down my phone, I snatch some to swipe at my runny nose. As I try to gather myself, Madelyn pushes the water glass over to me. “You’re allowed to cry, you know,” she offers gently.
“Dex’s family chooses happiness,” I choke out. “They even have a sign.”
“I’m sure that works for some people, sometimes. Other times, the sad just chooses you. And you just have to go with it.” Madelyn eyes me patiently as I mop at my tear-soaked face.
“You’re so nice.”
“I’ve been working here a long time.” She hitches her shoulders. “I’ve pretty much heard it all. Seen a lot of tears.”
This is probably true, but blubbering is the exact opposite of what I came to Tequila Mockingbird to do. I came here to forget.
First things first—or fourth things fourth—I need to get rid of my mom. The fact that she’s found her happily ever after only makes my heart hurt worse. Not that I want her to be miserable. I just don’t want to be the only one who is. I tried so hard to be different from her. To make better choices. And I still ended up alone.
“Sayla? Baby?” she calls out.
I look down at my phone, still on the bar. “Yeah.”
“Are you there? I can't hear you.”
I pick the phone back up. “I’m here, but I’d better go now. I’ve got my glass of wine to finish. And the next trivia game will start soon. So I’ll be all right. Good old Sayla is back in the game. Competing to win. Coming in second place, but that’s okay. I’m used to being second. To everyone. All the time.”
“Sayla.”
“Good luck with all the compromise, Mom,” I chirp. “I’m sure you and Eugene have a lot more cooperating and collaborating to get to.” I take a beat. “Wait. That sounded kind of dirty. Did that sound dirty? I didn’t mean it dirty.”
“Sayla.” She sounds stern now. “Hand the phone to the bartender now.”
I squint. “You want me to give my phone to Madelyn?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m your mother and I said so.”
“Fine.” I hold my phone out to Madelyn, scrunching up my nose in apology. “My mom wants to talk to you.”
Madelyn shakes her head, but she takes the phone anyway, then she turns away from me. So I lean forward over the bar trying to listen in on her conversation, and end up knocking over what’s left of my water.
“Sorry!”
Madelyn spins around and flashes me a look while I fumble for more napkins. I try to mop up the puddle, but water dribbles down both sides of the bar onto the floor.
“At least my Chardonnay survived.” I arrange the wet napkins in a pile and pick up my wine. I take a gulp. Then another. And another.
Madelyn frowns, and with her free hand, she takes my glass.
“Hey! That’s my wine!” I protest, then I almost slip off my stool.
“You’ll thank me later.” She steps away, scrolls through my contacts, and makes a call.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dex
Since Sayla peeled out of the faculty lot, I’ve been an absolute wreck of a man. I can’t stop imagining the worst, figuring she must hate me. At the very least, she’s got to think I lied. After all, I told her Wilford was going to give the FRIG to her department.
What other conclusion could she draw?
When she wouldn’t take my calls or reply to my texts, I enlisted Bridger’s help, and we spent the past three hours searching for her all over town. Separate cars. Divide and conquer. Well, he divided and conquered. I was performing a postmortem on the conversation I had with Wilford two weeks ago, trying to figure out what killed my plan.
And the conclusion is this: I’d gone to his office to convince him Sayla’s department deserved the grant, but he never formally committed to a decision. Not verbally. I guess I just wanted to believe he’d heard my arguments. That he agreed with me.
But he never said the words out loud, did he, Dex?
I feel so stupid now, rushing to surprise Sayla with the news. I wanted to be her hero. So I told her something I shouldn’t have—a fact that wasn’t guaranteed. At some point, he must’ve changed his mind. Or maybe I failed to sway him in the first place. Either way, I found out I was wrong the same time Sayla did.
We were both blindsided.
And the situation has got to look a whole lot like sabotage to her. What I said was the truth, as far as I knew: I’d gone in there with the intention of surrendering the FRIG. But then I asked her not to thank him or say anything about the decision so he could be the one to tell her himself.
To someone with trust issues like Sayla, that probably seems fishy. In hindsight.
Like maybe I went into Wilford’s office that day to plead my own case instead of hers. And that I’ve known all along the money was coming to athletics.
Coming to me.
As far as Sayla’s concerned, I just beat her again. She believed in me. And she lost.
Her face afterward. Oh, man.
I’ll never forget the hollowness in her eyes, her pale cheeks. How heartbroken she looked when she raced out of the parking lot. So I ran to my truck and tried to follow her, but she was already in the wind.
I didn’t go to the football game. First one I’ve skipped in years. But finding Sayla’s my top priority. The only thing I care about. I stopped by her house, but her car wasn’t there, so I knew she didn’t go home. I even thought of all the takeout containers full of leftovers I’ve seen her bring into the lounge for lunch, and I went to every one of the restaurants. No dice.
Now I’m out of ideas, sitting in paid parking across from city hall, when my phone buzzes.
My stomach slams into my throat.
Sayla.
I swipe to accept the call.
“Sayla?” My pulse races through me like jet fuel. I just need a chance to explain myself. “I’m so sorry,” I grit out. “Wherever you are, I’ll come meet you.”
“Hello, Dex.” The low murmur of a voice sounds vaguely familiar, a blast from the past, but this is definitely not Sayla.
My eyes cut up to the clocktower, to the glow of the face, reminding me how many hours it’s been since she took off. She must’ve lost her phone. Or what if she’s hurt? This could be the hospital or a police station or—
Stop catastrophizing, Dex.
“Who is this?” I growl. “And why do you have Sayla’s phone?”
“It’s Madelyn Porter.”
Annnnnnd now I’m even more confused.
Maddie Porter and I met back in seventh grade, when I first moved to Harvest Hollow. We stayed friends throughout high school, and even went on a couple dates a few years back. Maddie’s funny. Smart. Cute. But nothing clicked beyond casual with us. Which is the way I liked to keep things anyway. Still, a woman as great as Maddie Porter deserves a guy who can’t get enough of her brand of funny, smart, and cute. So when she felt the limit of our click too, and cut things off, I was relieved.
“What’s going on?” I ask, blinking in the dark cab of my truck.
“You at the football game? If so, I need you to come on down here, ASAP.” Down here. Last I heard, Maddie was tending bar at Tequila Mockingbird.
“I’m not at the game,” I grunt. “I’m already downtown.”
“Well, that’s good. Because your girlfriend’s had a little too much wine.”
Girlfriend.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Maddie lets out a scoff. “Based on the number of times she slurred your name tonight … I just figured.”
“Who’s slurring? Sayla?”
“That’s the one.”
“She’s been talking about me?”
“All night long.”
“And you have her phone because …”
“Like I said. She’s had a few too many glasses of Chardonnay. I didn’t overserve her on purpose, but I get the feeling your girl’s a total lightweight.”
“I get the feeling you’re right.”
“I just talked to her mom, and she was worried. We both think letting Sayla use some app to get a ride probably isn’t the best idea tonight. Harvest Hollow’s safe, but people show up from all over on a Friday night. I didn’t want to let her go home with a stranger.”
The thought of Sayla alone in the back of some random guy’s car makes my chest constrict. Like an elephant’s sitting on my ribcage. I’m already putting the truck in gear, forcing myself to keep a cool head while I drive. The bar’s only a few blocks away, but plowing into some other car will only hurt someone innocent. And I won’t get to Sayla any quicker that way either.
“I took her last glass of wine before she could finish it,” Maddie says as I pull out of the lot.
“Good call. Thanks, Maddie.”
“She was kinda feisty about it, but she’s got her head down on the bar now.”
My throat goes tight. “Sayla’s passed out?”
“Just resting,” Maddie says. “Talking to herself. Mumbling about linguini. And forehead kisses. And some kind of moon tattoo.”
“Got it,” I say. “I’ll be there in five.”
I’m coming for you, Sayla.
My girl.
I call Bridger next.
“She’s all right,” I say when he answers, relieved to have the words out. Even more relieved they’re true.
“Where was she?”
“Tequila Mockingbird. An old friend called. Gave me the heads-up.”
Bridger whistles. “Sayla tied one on?”
“I guess so,” I say. “I’m on my way to get her now.”
“Well, I’m glad she’s okay. You really care about this woman, huh?”
“I do,” I say.
Bridge dropped everything to help me out without even asking this before. He just hopped in his car and got to work.
“Thanks for being there for me,” I tell him. “You’re a good friend.”
“Anytime. You’d do the same for me.”
“You know I would.”
My heart hurts for the guy. As unlikely a pair as Sayla and I ever were, the woman he wants is engaged to another man. That’s an even bigger gulf to cross. Like impossibly big. But I can’t worry about Bridger and his unrequited love right now. I just have to get to Sayla.
When I arrive at the bar, I leave the truck at the curb in the red. I’ll only be inside a moment, but I can’t help flashing back to Sayla giving me a hard time about parking in the district spot.
Was that really less than a month ago now?
Inside, I find her perched on a stool, hunched over the bar top.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
At the sound of my voice, she blinks up at me.
“Dex. I don’t feel so good,” she groans. Then she squeezes her eyes shut tight like she’s blocking out the light. Or the music. Or the whole world. Including me.
I pass a bill over to Maddie. A hundred dollars, just in case. “Is this enough to cover Sayla’s tab?”
“More than enough,” she says. “Let me get you some change.”
“Keep it,” I say. “And thanks again for looking out for her.”
“It’s what I do.” Maddie hitches her shoulders. “You take care now.”
“Don’t worry. We will.”
I scoop Sayla’s rag doll body up off the barstool and cradle her against me as I head for my truck. She wraps her arms around my neck, her chin buried in my chest, and the anxiety I’ve been hauling around starts to dissipate now that I know for sure she’s safe.
What’s left behind is the dull throb of worry she may never forgive me. Still, I do my best to get her settled, then jog around to fire up the truck. The rumble of the engine’s a familiar comfort, and I turn on the heat. Sayla sighs and leans over, pressing her cheek to the window. “That feels good,” she mumbles.
I double-check the door's locked. “You’ll feel a whole lot better once we get you home.”
“Noooo. Not home.” She lets out a long moan. “Loren’s there. With linguini.”
“Linguini?”
“And Foster.” She sniffles like she’s either congested or she’s been crying. I hate either option. “If I go there now, I’ll ruin everything. I always ruin everything.”
“You don’t,” I tell her. But she’s just a huddle of blonde in the passenger seat, her pale head propped against the door.
“If I go home right now, I will,” she groans.
“The only other option is you coming to my place.”
She blows out a breath, her lips bubbling. “We already slept together at the retreat,” she says. “I mean we slept together in the same cabin. I mean we—”
“I know what you mean,” I say.
Looks like Sayla and I won’t be having any kind of productive conversation until the morning.
“So just to be clear, you’re saying we should go to my place. You’re okay with that?”
She shakes her head and accidentally bangs her skull against the window. “I’m not okay with anything,” she says.
“I know. And I’m so sorry.”
She rubs her temple. “Being sorry doesn’t change what’s already happened.”
You can say that again.
We both fall into silence and stay that way for the rest of the drive to my apartment. I live alone, in a one-bedroom one-bath place, so at least no one else will be put out by Sayla sleeping over. When we arrive, I feed her a couple of Advil, and get her tucked into my king-sized bed. There’s a full bottle of water on the nightstand. My plan is to take one pillow out to the couch and sleep there.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll probably lie awake all night.
I switch off the light and turn to go, but Sayla catches me by the arm. Her grip on my elbow is surprisingly firm for a drunk girl.
“Please,” she slurs. “Stay.”
“What?”
The room is dark, with only slivers of moonlight streaming through the shutters. She flips the light back on, screws up her eyes, and pushes the hair off her face. Her skin is damp from sweat or tears or both. I don’t know. I do know her mouth quivers when she says, “Don’t leave me.”
“Yeah, well.” I clear my throat. She looks so vulnerable right now. Too vulnerable. “I don’t think me sticking around is such a great idea.”
“My mom always left.” She heaves a sigh. “Like, always. She was so, so … leave-able.” Sayla sticks out her lip. “I don’t want to be the most leave-able.”
“The most leave-able?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nods, then slips deeper under the comforter, her head burrowed into the pillows. A sharp pain rips through my insides. There’s no way I can leave this woman now. I didn’t want to in the first place.
“Okay.” I turn the light off again, then bend down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead.
“You win, Kroft. I’ll stay.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sayla
I crack open a crusty eyelid and see Dexter, crammed into an armchair in the corner of a room I don’t recognize. He’s wearing the same joggers and rumpled hoodie from yesterday. Or from whenever the last time we were together. His hair is mussed. Eyes bleary. The man looks like I feel.
Which is to say … wrecked.
“Morning, sunshine,” he murmurs.
“Where am I?” I croak, propping my body up, even as a sinking feeling creeps over me. I rub my still-sleepy eyes, then pull my fingers through my hair, assessing just how many knots grew in my rat’s nest overnight. Worse than I thought. Untangling this mess is going to take an entire bottle of leave-in conditioner.
But as confused as I am, my situation has to be more comfortable than his is right now, stuck in a chair half his size. Meanwhile, I'm nestled in a pile of downy pillows, there’s a fluffy gray comforter covering my body, and a plush navy blanket is draped along the foot of the mattress. Not to mention everything around me smells delicious. Like pine-scented body wash mixed with laundry detergent and a hint of spicy cologne.
Dexter-licious.
“Is this your house?”
“Apartment,” he says.
I drag my gaze away from him to survey the rest of the room. Soft gray walls. White moldings. Streaks of daylight spill through the shutters. “Nice bedroom.”
“I was gonna sleep on the couch, but …”
“You stayed in here instead.” I lift a brow. “On a chair. Watching me sleep?”
“You begged me to.”
“Stay?”
“Yes.”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
I let out a small squawk. “Then you should have just put me on the couch.”
“No way.”
“Or you could’ve slept in the bed with me.” I glance around at the king-sized mattress. “It’s huge.”
“Also, no way.”
That’s when I spy a water bottle on the nightstand. My mouth’s full of cotton, and I’m so thirsty, I might cry. “Is this water for me?”
When he nods, I crack it open and drink greedily.
“You already finished another whole one last night. And I gave you a couple Advil, too. I wanted to get ahead of any headache you might wake up with, and I figured ibuprofen was safe enough. For the record, I did not ply you with mangoes.”
I slow my water-gulping, aiming for smaller sips, trying to get a handle on what must have happened since my mind went blank. Tequila Mockingbird. Madelyn. My mother. Ugh.
“You feeling a little better now?” he asks, when most of the water’s gone.
“I think so.” I put the cap on and set the bottle down. “Thanks for not intentionally triggering my allergies.”
