FIVE
HAYDEN
Consciousness comes to me slowly. It’s hazy at first, fuzzy around the edges like a dream. But gradually, light invades the dark corners of my room and sounds solidify into car horns and sirens in the distance.
There’s a split second before I’m fully alert when my brain hasn’t quite remembered the shit I’ve been going through lately. In that fleeting moment, I feel like my old self again, filled with excitement over the potential of a brand-new day. But then my brain powers all the way up and that positive, optimistic feeling vanishes.
I open my eyes and groan. Fuck, I’m tired. I haven’t felt this tired in… actually, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this tired before. We didn’t even stay out that late. And I only had a couple drinks. There’s no reason why I should want to curl back up under the covers, but I really,reallydo.
Last night comes back to me in stages. It was fine at first. Great, even. But by the time food was served at dinner, everything started falling apart.
The ache in the middle of my chest. The invisible heaviness weighing me down. The distance between me and everyone else. Like I was watching them through a thick pane of glass. Like I was drowning on one side while they all continued with their evening on the other.
It only got worse at The Bronzed Rail. Everyone was having so much fun. They all looked so happy. I should’ve been in the middle of it, smiling and laughing along with everyone else. But the more I watched them, the more the ache tried to swallow me up and the heaviness tried to crush me. And then there was the voice.
I mean, it’s not really a voice. Like, I’m not hallucinating and hearing things that aren’t actually there. The voice is just me, but it’s putting words to thoughts I’ve never had before. Like, they’re coming from me, but they’re not really mine.
No one wants you here. You’re only here because they need someone to bring Santino to the restaurant. You could get up and leave and no one would notice you were gone.
I didn’t think any of that was true, but the voice wouldn’t stop repeating it over and over and over. At one point, I wanted to cover my ears and scream just to drown it out.
But then someone did notice. Someone saw I was standing against the wall, trying to focus on anything else but those ugly, negative thoughts. Someone came over and sat down with me. Someone made sure I wasn’t alone.
Santino. The new guy.
God, how embarrassing. He must think there’s something wrong with me. I mean, I guess thereissomething wrong with me. Buthedidn’t need to know that. Not when he has to live with me for the next few weeks. The least I could’ve done was pretend I was normal.
But nope. He saw me hovering on the edge of freaking out. He reached out and threw me a lifeline. He reeled me in and made sure I didn’t float away.
How was he able to see me when no one else could? How did he know I needed someone to sit with me? Who is this guy?
Something stirs in my chest. It feels a little frantic, a lot desperate. It wants to latch on to Santino as if he’ll be able to save me from whatever’s wrong. As if one small act of kindness means he has the answer to all my problems.
Life doesn’t work that way, though. People don’t waltz into your life and magically fix everything that’s wrong. He didn’t come here to fix me anyway. He came here to work on the documentary. What right do I have to ask him to help me?
Besides, he probably thinks I’m a freak now.
I stab my fingers through my hair and force myself out of bed. I should stay away from Santino. Let him enjoy his time in the city. Let him focus on the documentary. He doesn’t need me and my issues distracting him from why he’s really here. And when he’s finished, he can go home with happy memories of his time in New York. He’s only here for a few weeks. I can hold things together for that long—I hope.
In the kitchen, I open the fridge door and stare inside. I’m running low on food, but there’s still more than enough for a decent breakfast. I could do breakfast burritos, BLT bagels, straight-up omelets. But I don’t really want to do any of that. I want to crawl back into bed and sleep for another hour or two or three.
Behind me, Rhys’s door—no wait,Santino’sdoor—opens. He comes out wearing boxers and a t-shirt. His thick, dark hair stands up on end and his eyes are barely open. He rubs a hand over his head. “Morning,” he mumbles.
My heart does this weird lurching thing in my chest. He looks adorable. All warm and soft from having just woken up. Iwonder what it would feel like to pull him into my arms and lose myself in all that warmth and softness.
I spin away, heart aching with just how much I want that. But it’s ridiculous. I don’t know the guy. I can’t maul him first thing in the morning before he’s fully awake. Instead, I put on the cheeriest voice I can muster while I’m still kind of groggy. “Morning! Want some breakfast?”
Santino leans against the counter as if he needs help staying upright. “Coffee?”
“Coffee! Yep, I can definitely do that.”
Santino’s face is all scrunched up as he eyes me with suspicion. “Lemme guess. You’re a morning person?”
I open my mouth to say yes, but stop short. I don’t know if I’m a morning person. Old Hayden would’ve been up hours ago, whereas I barely managed to force myself out of bed. I want to be a morning person again, but that feels so impossible right now. “Sometimes?”
Santino groans and rubs his hands over his face. “Bellamy’s a morning person too. Always up at the crack of dawn. It’s inhuman, bro.”
His grumpiness is endearing and I find myself smiling a little as I fill the kettle and prep the French press. “Rhys is like you. He hates mornings. Never gets up before ten o’clock.”
