Havoc

Something in his voice undoes me, and I unbottle the emotions I’ve been storing all day. I share it all with him—the hatred I feel for the dogfighters, the hope I have for the puppies and some of the younger dogs, the overwhelming sadness I feel for the dogs we couldn’t save. I tell him about the dreams I have about the animals who never leave the shelter, and Mike listens to it all. He listens to the negative and helps me focus on the positive, asking how I’m going to rehabilitate the young dogs, and by the time I’m finished unloading the weight that’s been on my shoulders since I walked into that shelter this afternoon, I actually feel . . . better. I feel like I might actually be able to sleep tonight.

“Thank you,” I say as I crawl under my covers. It’s nearing ten o’clock, which means it will soon be time for him to go onstage, if he’s not already late. “I feel better. You can go be a rock star now.”

“What if I don’t want to go?” Mike asks, and I smile as I pull my covers up to my chin.

“I’m pretty sure you have to.”

We both linger on the line, and I force myself to ask, “Can you do me a favor though?”

“Name it.”

“Send me a picture?”

“Of what?”

“You,” I answer timidly. “I don’t have one.”

I know I could go online. I’m sure there are plenty of pictures, videos, and interviews. Mike is famous, and I don’t doubt I could find a picture of him that would make my heart melt.

But I want one for me. I want a smile from him that’s just for me.

He agrees to send me one, and he wishes me sweet dreams. I reluctantly hang up since I know he really does have to go, and a few seconds later, a text dings on my phone.

I open the photo and smile at my screen as I stare into his warm brown eyes. He’s backstage at an obviously packed show, judging from all the people I see buzzing around in the background, but his soft smile is just for me. It touches his eyes and makes my heart swell, and I hold the phone to my chest as I fall asleep that night, wishing he wasn’t so far away.

Chapter 38

Mike sends me a photo every day for almost a week. We even try to video chat a couple times, but the connection is always spotty since he’s constantly on the go, so eventually, we give up trying. He flew to Beijing last night, so now we’re on a twelve-hour time difference. He left me a voice mail before I woke up this morning, wishing me a good day and telling me how much he missed waking up next to me. My heart ached as I listened to his voice, knowing the sun was setting where he was, even as it rose outside my window.

The memory of his fingers in my hair begins to feel like a fading dream, but I try to convince myself that his voice is enough. I miss the curve of his smile and the scent of his skin and how messy his hair looks first thing in the morning. I miss sitting next to him on his couch. I miss stealing glances across the room. I miss the warmth of his lips and the softness of his touch, and my heart aches with the loss of all these things even though I really only had them for a heartbeat in time.

Yet in spite of it all—in spite of the wound in my chest that reopens every time we hang up the phone—I feel myself falling even more for him. The distance between us gets greater and greater, but each passing day brings us closer and closer. He’s the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, and I’ve never been so excited for anything as I am for the moment his name flashes onto my phone.

“Let me use your phone,” Danica orders on Friday after my morning classes, and I glance up from my spot on the loveseat to see her motioning for me to toss my phone to her on the couch.

“Use your own phone.”

“I can’t,” she complains as she continues holding out her hand. Her feet are propped on the coffee table, her toes spread with foam separators as her glittery silver polish dries. We’ve been sitting together in silence for the last half hour while she painted her nails and I worked on a mountain of homework, since I’m sick and tired of imprisoning myself in my nine-by-ten bedroom just to avoid her.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because Mike blocked my number. Now let me use yours.”

I make a face and go back to ignoring her, since that is so not happening for so many reasons. For one, when she put in his number, he would show up as Dee-licious-andra and I’d be royally screwed. And for two, I hate her guts and there’s no fucking way in hell I’m going to give her my phone so she can try to win back my boyfriend.

“Oh, come on,” she argues. “You’re seriously going to be like that?”

I strangle my pencil as I try to solve organic synthesis problems. I used to think that hell must be filled with chemistry textbooks and structural formulas. Now, I’m convinced it must be filled with a million Danicas painting their toes on our communal coffee table.

She sighs dramatically and lowers her hand. “I can’t believe you’re still mad at me.”

I gape at her, and she rolls her eyes.

“It’s been like two whole weeks, Hailey. What are you going to do, stay mad at me forever?”

“You called me a whore,” I remind her. “You trashed my room. You flipped my desk. You blackmailed me. You broke my computer—”

“Do you need me to buy you a new computer?” she asks. “Is that what this is about?”

I swear I see red. My mouth is hanging open, but Danica just sits there staring at me like I’m the one who has problems.