Page 11 of Every Now and Then
“No, it doesn’t feel weird.” Hayes pauses, eventually adding in a soft voice, “It feels right.”
Funny how something that should feel wrong can feel so incredibly right.
“Have you ever felt like this before? Like you knew someone better than you do?” He exhales loudly while I remain silent. “Or is just me?” He peers down at me.
It isn’t just him.
“I feel it too.” The atmosphere in the small motel room feels claustrophobic. Charged and full of… something I can’t quite put my finger on. Elation? Uncertainty? Anticipation, maybe?
But there’s nothing more to experience or anticipate with Hayes because we have no future. Whatever attachment I feel for him is pointless because nothing more can come of it. There are no new memories to make together.
I’m grateful when Hayes interrupts my depressing line of thought with a random question.
“How did a girl from New York get such a Southern-sounding name?”
“My mom is a big snob and loves the British socialite scene, so she named me after Annabel Astor. What about you? How’d you get the name Hayes?”
“It’s a family name.”
As we continue talking in the still darkness, Hayes runs his fingers through my hair, from root to end. His touch is comforting. After months of taking care of my daughters, having someone dote on me feels like a luxury.
I tuck my head underneath his chin, and with every one of his exhalations, some of my hairs flutter, tickling my cheek. The rhythmic sounds of his heart and the warmth of his body pressed against mine eventually lull me to sleep.
For the first time in months, I don’t suffer from nighttime anxiety. Instead of waking up with music running through my head, music plays in my dreams.
Now that the effects of last night’s alcohol have worn off, I spiral, my mind racing from the very moment I awaken. Everything I drankto forget comes rushing to the forefront of my brain. My broken marriage, my brokenhearted kids, and my broken-down car.
I have to deal with all thatanda hangover from hell.
My mouth, so dry it hurts to swallow, feels like it’s filled with cotton, and I have a raging headache pulsating between my eyes. If I don’t move, my head doesn’t hurt as badly, so I remain motionless. It’s still dark outside, and the soft breathing noises coming from the body lying next to me inform me that Hayes is still asleep.
Hayes.
Somewhere between dusk and dawn—amid tangled sheets and whispered confessions—something powerful unfurled between us. I can’t stop these intense, albeit irrational, feelings because they’re justthere. Impossible to ignore, my feelings for Hayes leave me on edge. I’ve never felt this kind of magnetic pull to another person, not even to Kyle, and that terrifies me.
Hayes has the power to wreck me, to blow up the life I’ve spent the past few months carefully rebuilding. I can’t take that kind of risk. Kyle’s betrayal shattered my heart and left my life in pieces. I’m not sure I could survive that kind of heartbreak again.
I feel Hayes’ chest pressed to my back, his arm wrapped around me, molding me to his solid, muscular frame. Last night, it felt glorious. This morning, it feels like manacles, holding me down, locking me into place.
My marriage ended only months ago. My life is still in shambles. I can’t waste even a second contemplating starting something new, especially not with a one-night stand who ended his relationshipyesterday.
Nope. Ridiculous. Not happening.
Seventy percent of rebound relationships fail within the first three months, and ninety percent? They fail within six months. And thatis exactly what this would be for both of us—a rebound destined for failure.
The urge to escape becomes unbearable.
I roll away and sit on the bed’s edge. The pounding in my head feels like a stampede of horses running across my brain, making it difficult to think.
Should I just leave? No, Ihaveto leave. There’s no question about it.
As quietly as possible, I gather our clothes, sorting his from mine since they came off in a jumbled mess last night. I tiptoe to the bathroom, easing the door shut before flicking on the light, careful not to wake Hayes.
My eyes find my reflection in the old, cloudy motel mirror. I look... maybe one or two steps above something the cat dragged in. Slipping into my wrinkled clothes, I finger-comb my hair and twist it into amessy bun.
Hayes’ brown leather toiletry bag catches my eye on the bathroom floor. I rummage through it until I find a bottle of ibuprofen. Thank God. I shake out a couple of pills and swallow them with a mouthful of water from the rusty faucet. As I drop the bottle back into the bag, a flash of something red catches my eye. It's a small container of some expensive French brand of body wash. I pull it out and hold it under my nose, breathing in deep, committing that sinful scent to memory.
Because memories are all I’ll allow myself to keep of Hayes.
