She nods, then opens her door, gives me a wave and athank youfor walking her home, before disappearing inside.
When the door closes behind her, it feels like it’s being slammed in my face.
I tell myself it’s fine.
I tell myself it’s just one date.
I remind myself that I practically insisted she go on it.
And most of all, I tell myself it doesn’t matter, because it could never work between us.
But when I drive past her house at one fifteen the next day and see her car isn’t out front, my stomach drops to my feet, and I still don’t believe it.
On Tuesday, my mind races all day, wondering how her date went. I fight the urge a dozen times not to text her or even drop in at her place to ask, not wanting to give in to the voice in my head. I tell myself I won’t, but the first chance I get, I ask her about the date.
“How’d that date go?” I ask as I load dishes into the dishwasher while Emma gets ready for a shower. Once more, Emma insisted Hallie stay for dinner, and once more, I didn’t argue.
“Oh,” she starts, a blush burning her cheeks, and my chest tightens. “It, uh, it was pretty good, actually. I was surprised. We have a lot in common.”
“That’s good,” I say, suddenly very interested in organizing the dinner dishes in the machine, separating forks and spoons into their own segments. It’ll make unloading easier, of course.
“Yeah, I think we’re going to meet up at The Mill on Friday and get some drinks with Adam and Wren.”
I force my hands to continue their task, with no hesitation that she might notice.
Inside, I’m fighting back an internal crisis as I realize the woman I can’t stop thinking about is going on a second date with some asshole who definitely doesn’t deserve her.
Outside, I’m just Jesse King, organizing silverware. Nothing to see here.
Like the saving grace she is, before I have to say anything else, Emma comes into the kitchen to ask if she can have dessert, and Hallie takes that as her cue to leave.
“I’ll walk you home,” I say, and she shakes her head.
“No, no, it’s all good. I’ve got it.”
“My mom—” I start, attempting the argument that’s worked in the past, but knowing it’s probably no use.
“Like I said the last time you tried that, your mom would understand not leaving an eleven-year-old in a house alone to walk me one hundred yards. I’ll be fine.” The knife twists at the idea of not being able to steal those extra minutes, but what can I do? Arguing would look suspicious, and something tells me if I push too hard—if Hallie gets even the tiniest whiff that I might not be okay after our weekend together—this entire thing might implode.
So I nod.
“At least text me when you get inside.” She gives me a mock salute, and despite the dread in my heart, I smile before she wishes Emma and me goodnight and heads out. Minutes later, I get a text from her.
H: Made it home safe and sound.
J: I’m glad. Thanks for humoring me.
H: Always.
That night, I tell myself one successful date doesn’t mean anything.
I tell myself that it was just coffee.
I tell myself that she isn’t making dinner for him and his kid.
But the tiny, cruel voice in my head whispers,yet.
On Thursday, a storm hits Holly Ridge, and Emma has the day off, and Hallie shows up bright and early to watch her. I barely have time to talk to her before I have to head out, but I get plenty of texts throughout the day from both Emma and Hallie about their shenanigans. I eat a quick lunch and dinner out on the road and don’t make it home until after eight.
