“You cheated,” I accuse. We do this jig all the time and rarely does she change things on me.
“Really, Rawls?” she bites out. Hangry Hadley is coming out to play. “I know your game. Do you think you have me figured out? Well, you’re wrong. And I choose McDonald’s.” The rumble of the road beneath my tires is loud.
“Fine. But at least find me a Subway or something.”
“Or something,” she mumbles under her breath, typing away on her phone again. I reach for the radio and turn up the music. A new country song plays through the truck speakers with lyrics about a man being a boyfriend without benefits. I risk a glance at Hadley, who’s still buried deep in her phone, and slowly turn the music back down. No more of that while she’s here, but I make a mental note to google the lyrics and artist later. Does she even realize that’s what I am to her?
We continue the drive in silence.
Before I know it, we are both sitting in an old-school McDonald’s booth. Hadley is munching on a burger and fries—she actually sighs while eating—while I sip on sweet tea and take small bites of my chicken bacon ranch salad. I’m not a health nut by any means, but I do watch what I eat. Watching my grandma suffer from type two diabetes, the shots and insulin and attacks, was imprinted into my mind. I did not want to have the complications she did if I could prevent it.
There was no other option than Mcdonald's. At least, that’s what Hadley said.
“Want a fry?” She holds a long fry and wags it in my face. She’s chipper now that food has entered her system. “Seriously, Brax. Treat yourself every now and then.”
“With thin fries from McDonald’s?”
“Precisely,” she says, dipping it into her barbecue sauce and shoving the fry into her mouth with a cheeky smile. I love this smile—the one where her eyes crinkle up, her cheeks rise, and her chin tosses up slightly. Who am I to deny the apparent bliss a french fry can give her?
“So, what’s on the agenda for Charlotte?” I ask. She dabs at the drop of barbecue sauce that fell from a fry onto her blue sweater. The same deep blue color of her eyes.
“A new Chantilly sweater.” She sighs. “Seriously. Why can’t I eat food or drink anything without getting it all over me like a baby with her first birthday cake?”
“Because you’re Hadley.” I shrug. This is nothing new. Nor as bad as the time she tripped and reached out to the counter to prevent her fall. But instead of grabbing the counter, she grabbed the low-carb pie she had made me for my birthday. There were many tears from her and concealed laughs from me that night three years ago.
“I’d like to trade me in for an updated version.”
“I like this version.” I wink. She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way she turns her face away as a smile forms across her signature pale pink lips.
“Amusement.” She laughs, her smile morphing into a smirk. “That’s what’s in Charlotte. You’ll hate it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Hadley
He“more-than-a-friendlovesme.”
At least my dreams tell me that. But it was oh so real. I could still feel the way his breath tickled my ear as he whispered the words. I felt it down my spine to the tips of my toes. Everyone’s favorite mall song—”Bubbly” by Colbie Caillat—has played on repeat since that unfortunate dream.
Speaking of tingly feelings…
“My body’s in overdrive!” I yell over the roar of the rollercoaster as it drops down, taking my stomach with it. Braxton’s face is literally turning green, and I’m seriously afraid he may barf all over us. I don’t need a repeat of the hot tub, thank you very much.
After we checked into our hotel in Charlotte, North Carolina, I forced him to let me drive to our evening destination—Fableland Amusement Park. Daniel loved amusement parks. Quite frankly, so do I. I had planned this time for us to have some fun…before he decided to have fun with another woman.
Shake it off, girl. You’re Taylor Swift. He isn’t worth your thoughts.
But Braxton? He hates amusement parks. Grinch-style LOATHES them. I promised him his restaurant of choice if he would ride one roller coaster with me. After we watched one group stumble off the nearest coaster and another group eagerly get on, he reluctantly marched over to stand in line for that coaster—Flashtime, one of the fastest, tallest rollercoasters. The one I had conveniently situated us near before making the deal.
I never said I played nice.
When the coaster comes to a halt, one look at Braxton has me bursting at the seams with laughter. His usual gel-styled, slicked-back hair sticks up in wild directions, matching the panic swimming in his dark roast eyes. His hands are glued to the safety rail, which is rising as the operator brings it up. I reach for his hands, prying them from the continually lifting metal bar.
The man looks absolutely shell-shocked. Coaster-shocked?
He shakes his head suddenly, coming back to reality. He stares down at our jumbled hands, which currently look like a Hadley Hand Sandwich the way his are squished between my own.
Feeling the heat rush to my cheeks—or maybe windburn—I snatch my hands back and hop out of the cart.
