“Oh.”
My stomach sinks a little. Stupid. I should be relieved. Less exposure to Hayes means fewer chances to combust in public. But I hate how the booth feels colder the moment he says it.
He hesitates for a second, then adds, “I’ll walk you home first, if that’s okay?”
No. Absolutely not.
I should wave him off and disappear down Main Street alone, sticking to the shadows. Be the fierce, independent whistleblower I supposedly am.
But my brain’s gone syrupy, and the idea of him walking me home sends a little thrill through my chest I don’t want to examine too closely.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Sure.”
He smiles, standing before he tosses a few bills onto the table. Before I know it, he’s holding the door open for me like he’s still the same polite, considerate boy who used to wait outside the girls’ locker room with my forgotten textbooks.
But he did let me walk away when I needed him the most…
We walk in silence at first. Honeysuckle Grove is buzzing with the excitement that comes with winter and Christmas, and the scent of pine and apple cider cresting over the constant horizon.
My scent’s probably trailing behind me in a goddamn smoke signal, but Hayes doesn’t say a word. Just keeps pace beside me, not too close, not too far.
“You know,” he says eventually, “I kept your number.”
I glance at him. “Did you use it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “I almost did. A bunch of times. But I figured… if you wanted to talk to me, you would’ve.”
That hits harder than I expect.
“I didn’t think I could,” I admit. “After everything.”
He nods. Doesn’t push. Just quietly walks with me another block.
“Place hasn’t changed much,” I say, mostly to fill the space. “Still smells like popcorn and wet mulch.”
Hayes laughs softly. “And over-chlorinated pool water?”
“Exactly.”
We turn the corner, and there it is.
The townhouse.
It feels different with Hayes beside me. I notice things I wasn’t looking at before.
Still prim and proper and smug as ever, with its iron gate and symmetrical hedges trimmed to within an inch of their lives. The porch swing still squeaks on windy days. The brass “M” on the door still shines. Somehow, my mother’s legacy hasn’t yet rotted underneath it.
My stomach twists.
Hayes slows beside me, and suddenly the air between us is thick again. Not with warmth, not just that. But with everything unspoken between the two of us—which is a lot, judging by the way my heart leaps into my throat and cuts off my ability to speak.
He doesn’t look at the house. He looks atme.
And I know that look. It’s the same one he wore the night before I ran. The night I told him what I was going to do. The night that, for once, he didn’t have an opinion.
So odd for Hayes, not having an opinion about something.
His hand twitches at his side. As if he wants to reach for me. Like he doesn’t know if he still has the right.
