Now, Hailey’s notes in the margins bounce around my head.
What did I do?
Why did he want her more?
What did she give him that I couldn’t?
Each question screams deep-rooted insecurity and vulnerability. Resignation and acceptance. Rather than fuming that he hurt her, she wondered how she made him lash out.
I glossed over it on my first reading, but things have changed. Days spent watching her grapple with her past, days of learning her routine, smiles, frowns...
Suddenly that memory ignites violence.
Myviolence.
Alex hurtHailey. Physically when he put his hands around her neck and, by the look of it, mentally, too.
Fuck, there’s more to this story than I anticipated.
“When did the memories about your mom start coming back?” I ask, careful how I pose the question as we enter the almost empty theater.
Even this feels loaded, but I need the answer. Hailey could wonder why I care about thewhenrather than thewhat. She probably wonders why I care at all.
I know I do.
She meets my gaze, stopping left of the door, helplessness clouding her eyes. I don’t like that look on her. Not one fucking bit. It sparks the urge to hold her and tell her she’s okay.
Fuck, I bet this is what it’s like on the Vomit Comet. I lose my sense of right and wrong when Hailey’s close, then I crash with reality remembering Aalyiah’s dead because of her. Then I lose it again, over and over and over until I’m not far off puking out my guts.
“A few days ago,” she admits.
Why aren’t you writing about your mom, Hailey?
I can’t ask that.
I know she’s writing about her memories, so there’s no reason why I’d think she’s omitting her mother.
I alter the question, hoping for the right answer. “Does writing about your mom help?”
“That’s the therapeutic part,” she says softly, brushing her hair over her neck again so I can’t see the fading scratches. “With Alex I’m deciphering a code, piecing a puzzle. Writing about Mom is different. She’s dead. It’s final.”
The door behind us bursts open and Jensen arrives, his confident step faltering when he spots us. With a crooked smile at Hailey, he gives me a wide berth, jogging down the stairs. Instead of his usual spot in the third row, he slips into a seat beside Hailey’s usual one.
My eyes narrow as I wonder what the fuck he’s playing at. For the past week Rhys has been teaching the class about what he calls the four Cs: consent, comfort, choreography, and communication when acting out intimate scenes...
I grind my teeth, glaring daggers at the back of Jensen’s head. That sly motherfucker.
“Sit with me,” I tell Hailey, putting two and two together.
Her lips part, but words fail her as she scans the theater until her eyes spot Jensen.
“What is he...” She trails off, shaking her head like she doesn’t want to go there. “Okay. The view from up here is better.”
If she’s down there, it sure is.
She moves along until she’s halfway down the row. Dropping her bag, she sits, wrapping her long fingers around the cup of coffee like she’s anchoring herself.
Or maybe keeping warm.
