Chapter Thirty-Six
–Haley–
Claire shifts on the blanket beside me. “How do you know he’s laughing about this?”
I roll over and press my face into the blanket, feeling the cool grass beneath it. Music drifts from Nick Wilson’s house. We came outside to escape it, but the boom, boom, boom of the bass carries farther than I’d thought possible. And all it does is take me back to the dance floor with Fletch. Why did I dance with him? Why did I let him take me backstage? Why can’t I stop hanging out at his place of employment?
“Haley?” Claire prompts. “How do you know he’s laughing at you? How do you know what he’s thinking if you just ran off?”
“I don’t know that he’s laughing at me, okay?” I admit, and then I turn over to look at her. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish it had gone differently. That I’d been more in control of the situation. More experienced. I mean I just let him…”
“What?” Claire asks, a grin sliding across her face. “Pleasure you? Meet your every need—”
I reach up and cover her mouth with my hand. Why did I have to tell her? I shoot a glance at the two guys standing near the lake, only about twenty feet from where we’re sitting. “Tate is right over there,” I hiss. “It’s already weird that I told you.”
Which is why I couldn’t tell Claire that what happened with Fletch was kind of a first for me. Yeah, Tate and I had sex when we were together, and he definitely tried his best to be considerate and unselfish, but still that never really happened for me. We were too young, too inexperienced for it to be amazing. But in the event that Claire and Tate are having mind-blowing sex together, my own pride is a bit too fragile to explain to her why tonight was more monumental for me than it may seem.
“Still don’t get how Leslie and Kayla missed you disappearing with Fletch,” Claire says.
“I know, right? What’s the point of safety in numbers if your numbers don’t notice that you’re missing?” Although, if I’m being honest, had it been the other way around, had any of them disappeared, I wouldn’t have seen a thing. I was way too absorbed in Fletch.
God, Fletch.
He’s still on my skin. In my head. In my panties.
I groan and return to pressing my face into the ground. My head is throbbing. I’ve had too many drinks tonight. And a lot of excitement. “No more club. Don’t let me go back there no matter what I say, deal?”
“We can revisit that request,” Claire says. “But first, what if we employ a little basic logic? Fletcher made it clear he can’t do the girlfriend/boyfriend thing with you—”
“Oh, so clear,” I say. A lump forms in my throat thinking about that last phone call, my stupid idea to ask him out. Like I’m so great that I can make anyone say yes. Didn’t work with Tate; sure as hell didn’t work with Fletcher.
“But,” Claire offers. “He’s obviously into you. He wants you in some way, maybe not in the way you want. But if we’re being logical, this means you can have something from him, just not everything. The question is—”
“Is that enough for me,” I finish. I sit up, slowly allowing that question to sink in. In the moment, I didn’t need anything else. Couldn’t think about anything but the feel of him, the taste of him. But now…?
“If you’re enjoying yourself,” Claire says, “what’s the harm in continuing?”
“That’s the thing, it is fun,” I admit. “Well, it was until I asked him out and he shut down all hope of anything in the future. But if we go back to that, what happens when things in my life aren’t so fun? What if I’m in a crisis and I really need someone?” I look her in the eye. “What if Tate was only willing to be the guy for you who shows up after closing time at the bar for hot make-out sessions? What if he wasn’t willing to stick around when your dad got sick or when that guy tried to attack you? Would that be enough for you?”
Claire’s face grows serious. She shifts her gaze to her hands. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“That’s what I thought.” My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “So yeah, I definitely can’t go back to that club.”
“But is it like that for you and Fletch?” Claire says, her forehead wrinkling. “Is it just hot make-out sessions after closing time?”
As if someone hit the rewind button, I replay the events of my summer. Fletch trying his best to explain complicated outline structures to a distracted me. Fletch showing up at my house with Vixen to apologize for being an asshole. Fletch admitting to me how much he loves to play hockey. Watching the sunrise on the roof of his barn. Dancing in my basement. Him holding my hair while I barfed and pleading with Mrs. Markson to give me a retest. All the details roll over me in layers upon layers.
Slowly I shake my head. “No, it hasn’t been all about the make-out sessions, but he said he didn’t want—”
“To go to a stupid town dance with you,” Claire points out. She’s got that look on her face that people get when they think they’ve figured out something before you have. “My mom used to tell me not to judge a guy by what he says, but instead to pay attention to what he actually does. I think she wanted to make sure I didn’t fall victim to some sweet-talker, but what I’m saying is that Fletcher hasn’t promised you something and then broken that promise, right?”
Something about that advice and the way she worded that last thing about promises sends a punch of guilt through me. She’s right. Fletch didn’t promise me anything. But still he gave and he gave on many occasions. And then I pushed him. Like I always seem to do when I really want something.
And I really want him.
“It wasn’t fair, was it? When I asked him out?” I say to Claire, though I’m really talking to myself. “I knew he wasn’t ready, and then it’s like I gave him an ultimatum—either date me or never speak to me again.”
Claire opens her mouth to argue but instead bites down on her lower lip, likely seeing my point.
I spring to my feet, feeling both guilty and energized. I free my phone beneath my dress strap where I’d stowed it. “So, I’ll call him. I’ll tell him I’m sorry for running off and for pushing him and just…” I look at Claire for more, but she’s focused on something inside the house. “And whatever. We’ll just go from there. It’s a good start, right?”
“You could call him,” Claire mutters, her eyes now wide. “Or you could just tell him in person.”
I pivot to face the house and, sure enough, Fletcher Scott is pushing through the crowded living room, heading for the back-patio door.