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He may have been in Vegas, but it feels like a million miles away, and my memory forgets what he looks like, having not seen him in almost a month. So, becoming a crazed, obsessed stalker seems only natural. I hit up social media, searching every photograph he is in and the general comments he posts. Just like Vicky said, he’s an extreme sports junkie with countless pictures of him jumping out of planes and off cliffs. He doesn’t post many status updates, but it’s the link to a video that he posted only hours ago which catches my attention.
I press play, and it’s him playing a guitar and singing. In what looks like a hotel room balcony with the night’s sky above him, the guitar is positioned on his lap as he sits on the floor against the railing. Wearing a ratty Rolling Stones tank, gray sweats, and an army-green beanie, his arms are flexed and fuck, does he look gobsmackingly beautiful.
He plays the chords and hums along to a familiar beat. I wrack my brain trying to figure out the song, and by the time he reaches the chorus, I recognize it. It’s an Eagles’ song, ‘I Can’t Tell You Why,’ and I remember it from my childhood when Dad would play the album on repeat.
Haden’s voice is soft and sexy, perfectly in tune with the song. It’s over so quickly that I press play again, but this time I close my eyes. The lyrics are sinking deep within me—every word, every emotion, fueling this burning fire I am trying so hard to contain. What is it about him that does these things to my body and soul?
I let out a breath to stop my heart from racing, and I click on the comments below. Several friends have commented, shared, and liked his post. In fact, there are over a hundred comments. By the end of the night, I feel li
ke a complete loser for reading more into it. He probably sings it about Eloise, and that thought makes me head straight to the tub of ice cream I had reserved for Vicky.
Kate and Vicky notice a change in my mood, and they are quick to figure it out.
“You porked him, didn’t you?” Kate sighs, using her over-the-top British slang.
“For the millionth time, no!”
“Something happened,” Vicky coerces, watching me intently. “You’re acting odd. You’re in love with him… aren’t you?”
Frustrated, I pull myself up from the couch with the assistance of Kate. Being heavily pregnant at just under thirty-five weeks is taking its toll on my body.
“We kissed… okay? That’s it,” I barely admit. “And I’m not in love with him. Just feel guilty because we shouldn’t have. It’s not fair to Eloise.”
The damage is done, and the worst part is that it damaged me. I have enough on my plate without throwing a pile of guilt on there. I should have known this would happen. I’m not as strong as I thought I am. Love has this stupid way of creeping under your skin when you least expect it.
Shit, I did not just use the word love.
“Sweetie,” Vicky says soothingly, rubbing the base of my back like the good friend she is. I welcome the massage, especially because of the extra weight I’m carrying. “Why don’t you just admit there’s something there between you?”
I want to ugly cry, and I’m not an overly emotional person. I didn’t even cry when watching Steel Magnolias or even Beaches, and everyone cries watching those movies.
“I really want to drop this subject.”
Thankfully, they drop the subject at that, but not without offering to hang out with me for the night. I reassure them I’m okay because I have to be, and I carry on, asking them about their plans for the evening.
Vicky is meeting up with Patrick, which no doubt will result in her coming back here two hours later in tears. Kate has a rendezvous planned with mystery man. She’s dressed in a short, fitted leather dress and really high leather pumps, and I’m dying to ask if it’s at some underground bondage club. I also wonder if the mystery package that arrived earlier in the week from a place called Betty’s Sweet Things has something to do with tonight.
Alone and on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, I’m entertained by Reese Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama. As one of my favorite movies, it is normally a great distraction, but tonight, I can’t stop thinking about what Haden is up to. No doubt, men surrounded by feral kitties and cheap booze won’t end well. Argh. I shove a handful of popcorn in my mouth, ignoring the images that taunt me. Vegas is a sleaze hole.
Moments later, my phone beeps, and Vicky’s name pops up.
Vicky: Oh my god Pres! Quick bathroom break, Patrick just told me he is leaving his wife and gave me a key to his new apartment!
I cringe and let out an annoyed sigh. Here we go again. No matter what I say, Vicky is going to ignore my advice anyway. To avoid the confrontation, I put my phone aside until I have some sort of response that will satisfy both of us. When it beeps a minute later, I know she won’t give up, so I pick it up and see that it’s not from her.
Haden: Just checking in to make sure you haven’t given birth and ran away to some enchanted forest to raise my kid.
I laugh out loud to myself, sinking further into the sofa with a deep smile on my face. As I type a response, nerves suddenly appear, and my usual witty comebacks aren’t occurring to me like they usually do. He’s miles away, yet I feel like he’s right beside me.
Me: Still THE giant elephant in the room. Surprised you found time out of your busy stripper schedule to say hello.
I sit and wait for him to respond, but nothing. An hour later, I’ve deemed myself pathetic and make my way to bed, cursing the living daylights out of him.
Why did he have to text me, only to leave me hanging like this. It’s my own fault, I shouldn’t get so giddy at a simple text.
I try to fall asleep, but my restless legs and weak bladder call for a sleepless night, so I get to reading. Somewhere in my pregnancy book, I fall asleep only to be woken shortly after from another text.
Haden: Can I call you?
