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To put a swift end to this interaction, I shoot him one last text. “I can’t meet you tonight. I’m at Charity’s bachelorette party. And I don’t owe you anything, Jackson. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but it didn’t, and that’s no one’s fault. I’m not interested in rekindling anything, ever. I hope you find someone that fits you better than I did and that you’ll both be very happy together. Good night.”
To avoid the temptation of further engaging with him, I open the flap of my pink leather purse and slide my phone inside.
There.
No more Jackson.
This is Charity’s night.
___
As the night wears on, I drink until I ama little past tipsy.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Charity, even though I doubt she cares. She’s busy flirting with the cute bartender.
I stumble and giggle a bit as I get off the stool and steady myself. After blinking a few times, I make my way through the crowd to the cramped restroom.
While I’m peeing, I get the bright idea to dig out my phone and see if I have any missed notifications.
There are several from Jackson. The longer I ignored him, the angrier he got until he finally stopped texting me. He started again, though, about ten minutes ago.
Since I’m a bit drunk, I finally answer this one. “Omg what?”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Out with Charity, I told you.”
“I need your help, Hallie. I got into some trouble.”
Sobering just a bit, I try harder to focus on the screen. I squint, then close one eye and type back, “What kind of trouble?”
“I need you to meet me. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. I’ll pay you back tomorrow, but I’m in big trouble. Please come, I’m fucked if you don’t.”
“What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I’m out with my boss and some of his friends.”
That’s not an answer. Sighing, I tuck the phone back in my bag so I can get out of the tiny bathroom stall. As I’m standing at the sink washing my hands, I hear my phone vibrating more insistently than it would for a text message.
Someone’scallingme?
I grab a paper towel and quickly dry my hands, then I dig my phone back out.
The number flashing across the screen is Jackson’s, so I expect to hear his voice when I pick up the phone.
It’s not Jackson.
“Hello, Hallie.”
The deep, unfamiliar voice of the man on the other end gives me pause.
I respond uncertainly, “Who is this?”
“I’m sending a car for you,” he says, not answering my question. “Where are you?”
My heart sinks. I’m not even sure why, but there’s such authority in the man’s tone, it doesn’t even cross my mind that I could simply tell him to fuck off, that I’m not leaving my friend’s bachelorette party for reasons still entirely unknown to me.
Instead, I stumble out of the bathroom, trying to pull myself together as I make my way outside to see where I am.
