by Sarina Bowen
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Um, no. My brain decided I don’t need to be thinking about that horrible topic anymore.” I pause, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. “I can’t wait to see Matt tonight.”
She’s quiet for a moment, a slow smile playing on her lips. “Wow. You’re really into him, huh?”
My cheeks get hotter. “So much.”
“Curling iron’s ready!” she chirps. “Sit.” She drags me to the chair she’d set up in front of the wall mirror in my bedroom. “And elaborate while I make you extra gorgeous.”
“There’s nothing to elaborate on.” I shrug. “I like him.”
Jenny grabs a handful of hair clips from the dresser and begins sectioning off my hair. Then she takes one small chunk and twists it around the hot iron. Steam rises up for a moment, and I say a quick prayer that she doesn’t burn my hair off. I’ve actually never seen Jenny do anyone’s hair before, come to think of it. But her long locks are always perfectly curled, so I’m hopeful that she knows what she’s doing.
“You like him,” she echoes. “What else?”
“I don’t understand the question.” Our eyes meet in the mirror, and we both start laughing.
“You’re the worst gal pal ever,” she declares. “I want details, Hailey. Like, is the sex still awesome after three months? Has the marriage word come up?”
“Marriage?” I squawk. “He hasn’t even referred to me as his girlfriend yet!”
“Really?” A frown mars her lips. She slides the curling iron down and a perfect spiral of dark hair bounces on my shoulder. As she unclips the next chunk, her frown deepens. “Do you think maybe this is just a fling for him?”
“I don’t think so,” I admit. “But don’t ask me what it is, because I’m still not sure.” A sigh heaves out. “All I know is that I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“Passion,” I say frankly.
Jenny giggles and tackles another section of hair. My reflection in the mirror shows loose, bouncy curls that, paired with my bangs, give me a flapper-girl vibe. I like it.
“Seriously,” I insist. “I honestly didn’t get it before. I thought that what Jax and I had was normal—pleasant missionary sex a couple times a week, I-love-you’s instead of dear-god-I-want-to-fuck-you, no orgasms more often than not…” I shrug. “It’s different with Matt. I swear, I want him all the time. I wish I could carry him around in my pocket and take him out whenever I’m lusting for him.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Um, we all wish that. But you’d never get any work done if you had a Pocket Matt.”
“Work’s overrated.”
As Jenny finishes my hair and moves on to my makeup, we chat some more about the sheer hotness of Matt Eriksson. Anticipation burns hot in my blood. I cannot wait to see him tonight.
“Oh wow!” Jenny exclaims thirty minutes later when I exit the bathroom in my dress.
“It’s not too racy?” Biting my lip, I step up to the mirror and examine the deep vee neckline of the long, silky gown. It’s black and has a high back to cover my tattoos—I don’t usually try to hide them, but I’m not sure who’ll be at the event tonight and how open-minded they are. The TWBA has been around forever, and some of the women who sit on the board are…old.
Oh brother. Am I being ageist right now?
“It’s a perfect combo of classy and racy,” Jenny assures me. “The future Mr. Hailey will drop dead when he sees you.” She bites her lip. “Wait, that’s not a good thing. You want him to be alive for your wedding.” She thinks it over for a second, then beams at me. “The future Mr. Hailey will come in his pants when he sees you.”
I sure hope so.
The gala is being held at the Fairmont Royal York Hotel, a luxury hotel near Toronto’s Harbourfront. It’s insanely fancy-pants and I can’t believe I’m actually being honored here tonight. I walk into the lobby alone, marvelling at the impossibly high ceiling, the shiny floors, and the old-timey clock that stands between two spiral staircases. Near the check-in counter is a small area with two long tables and a sign for the Toronto Women’s Business Association. I make a beeline for it, greeting the woman at the table with a nervous smile.
“Hailey Taylor Emery,” I say, gesturing to the name cards lined up on the tables.
She checks her clipboard, scribbles something down, and then finds my name among the thick cardstock nameplates.
“One of our honorees!” she crows. “Congratulations!”
I feel myself blushing. “Thank you. I’m a bit nervous.”
“Don’t be. Everyone here is thrilled for you. We’re lucky to have you as a member.”
I fight the urge to twirl around happily. “Thank you,”’ I say again. “I’m proud to be one.”
“You’re at table three,” she tells me, before referring to the clipboard again. “It says here you have a plus one.”
“Yes, he’ll be here shortly.” I haven’t spoken to Matt since this morning, but he confirmed earlier that he’d meet me at the Fairmont. His flight time had changed from three p.m. to five. But we’d anticipated this. In order to make sure there wouldn’t be any snafus, Matt left his tux in the car at the airport just in case there wasn’t time to go home beforehand. And it’s only a ninety-minute flight from New York, with clear skies tonight.
“I’ll just wait in the lobby until he arrives,” I tell the hostess.
“Of course.” She sets down the clipboard and smiles. “You still look nervous.”
“I still am,” I answer with a weak giggle. “I’ve never received an award before.”
She winks at me. “Don’t worry, it’s not as nerve-wracking as you think. The speeches take up hardly any time. Our chairwoman, Barbara Dubois, will give her intro speech at eight, the awards are handed out at eight thirty, and by nine everyone’ll be on the dance floor.”
That relaxes me a bit. I wrote a short speech, but I’m afraid it’s not good enough. Or that it doesn’t sound grateful enough. I am, though. Growing up with a mother who was impossible to please, I tend to overcompensate when it comes to my job. I work my ass off, and sometimes I wonder who I’m doing it for. If I’m chasing success for me, or if because I’m still, subconsciously, trying to silence that critical voice that told me I’d never amount to anything.
Those thoughts are too damn dark to delve into right now, though. All I know is that I’m proud of myself. Which, I guess, answers those Deep Questions. I’m doing this for me. Because building this little business from the ground up has brought me a shit ton of joy.
My other source of joy, however, is nowhere to be found. I stare at the front doors, willing Matt to walk through them. He’s ten minutes late, but we’ve got time. The ceremony starts at eight, and the lobby clock says it’s only seven forty.
Plenty of time, I assure myself.
Several more people stream into the hotel. Matt isn’t one of them.
I fish my phone out of my black satin clutch, but there’s no message waiting for me. I take a calming breath. Hopefully he’s parking his car and will be here any second.
I wander over to the lobby doors and watch the night traffic zoom by on Front Street. Three different cars stop at the valet stand in front of the hotel. Matt doesn’t get out of any of them. I check my phone again. It’s seven fifty. He’s twenty minutes late. Damn, I hope he didn’t get held up in customs at the airport.
“Ms. Emery?”
I turn to find the woman from the check-in desk standing behind me. “Everyone is being urged to take their seats,” she says softly.
“Oh. Right.” Torn, I glance at the huge windows again. Crap. I need to get inside that banquet hall. But Matt’s still not here.
The woman follows my gaze. “I’ll tell you what—why don’t you leave me your guest’s name? When he arrives, I’ll personally escort him to your table.”
It’s a compromise I’m not thrilled about, but I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t stand out in the lobby forever. The idea of wal
king in right in the middle of Barbara Dubois’s speech and causing a scene as I tiptoe to my table turns my insides to knots. That would be mortifying.
“All right. My boyfriend’s name is Matt Eriksson.”
Her expression doesn’t change, which tells me she’s not a hockey fan. Probably for the better. That means she won’t fawn all over him when he shows up.
I follow the signs toward the banquet-hall doors, while quickly keying a text message into my phone.
Hailey: Had to take my seat. Lady out front will bring you to table 3.
I wait for the typing bubbles to appear, but the screen stays silent. No response.
Hailey: Where are you??
The banquet hall is packed. I walk in and all I see are sparkling chandeliers, round tables with elaborate centerpieces, and a sea of well-dressed women. Several of them smile at me as I shuffle to my table. I smile back, and excitement builds again. Holy shit. I recognize a few faces belonging to prominent female newscasters and television personalities. There is a lot of high-powered estrogen in this room. The women outnumber the men two to one, and it looks like many of them didn’t even bring dates. There’s something seriously awesome about that—ladies doing it for themselves and all that jazz.
I find table number three and awkwardly sit in one of the two empty chairs. I introduce myself to everyone and discover that this table is reserved for all the awards recipients and their dates. Unlike the solo women I saw at the other tables, this bunch all brought dates. I’m the only one without a plus one.
He’ll be here.
Of course he will. There’s no reason for him not to be. I checked the forecast only an hour ago and didn’t see any storms or weather events that would delay his plane. He didn’t have any mandatory press events in New York. He literally has to step off the plane, change, and get in a cab. Maybe traffic over at the airport is worse than usual?
“So. Hailey. What do you do?” the woman to my right asks politely. She’s in her mid to late forties and introduced herself as Maryann Winston, but she didn’t say what kind of award she was receiving.
“I own a business called Fetch,” I answer, feeling oddly shy.
Maryann’s husband leans across her to flash me a big smile. “Well, what do you know! I use your services all the time!”
Maryann raises her thin, blond eyebrows at her husband. “You do?” she says in surprise.
He nudges her slender arm. “Sweetheart, I’ve had flowers delivered to our house at precisely six twenty-nine a.m. on your birthday for the last three years—how did you think I managed that?” He chuckles. “I certainly wasn’t roaming the streets early in the morning, banging on flower shop doors and begging them to open.”
“Six twenty-nine a.m.?” I ask, fighting a smile.
Maryann blushes and glances at me. “That’s when I was born.”
I melt a little. Oh wow. This man loves his wife so much that he arranges for flowers to be delivered at her exact time of birth? That’s so damn sweet.
Maryann reaches out and lightly pats my upper arm. “I’m glad businesses like yours exist, Hailey. If only to prove that true romance still exists.”
And to facilitate cheaters…
I shove the thought aside. This is a happy night. I can’t think about Kara. Though I’d be a lot happier if Matt would get here already.
We schmooze for a few more minutes while we wait for the ceremony to begin. I check my phone every other second, until Maryann finally calls me on it, her expression awash with sympathy.
“Your husband is late?” she says.
“Boyfriend,” I reply, giving a worried nod. I really hope everything is okay. It’s not like Matt to not text or call if he’s running late. Out loud I say, “He’ll be here soon.”
“Of course.” She turns to her husband, but not before I catch a glimpse of the pity in her eyes.
Oh my God. She doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’ve been stood up.
But I haven’t been stood up. He’ll be here. Matt will absolutely, totally be here.
I haven’t been stood up.
I’ve been stood up.
Matt never showed. This might not be so soul-crushing if he’d called. Or texted. Or anything.
It’s nine o’clock and the ceremony is long over. I’m leaning against a column, the dregs of my drink in my glass, feeling awful. The strap of the tiny little purse I brought tonight (because hello, fancy dress!) is gouging a trough in my shoulder. My award is sticking out of the top. It’s a trophy of a seated woman with a thoughtful expression, her quill pen poised over a ledger book. She looks lonely. And she’s surprisingly heavy.
I feel low. And to make it worse, they’re playing “Always on My Mind” for the couples on the dance floor. That’s my sad song—the one I listen to when I need a good mope. The Elvis version.
When my award was announced, everyone clapped as I stood to walk to the podium. I felt shaky as I quickly gave the brief acceptance speech I’d rehearsed. This was supposed to be a big moment for me. I thought I’d feel…settled. Successful business. Sexy boyfriend. Happy night.
God, I’m so lonely instead. After the ceremony I made some small talk with the other members of TWBA. But there’s nobody in this room who really knows me. I’m turning thirty this summer and all I have to show for my life is a business that my ex wants me to leave, and a man who doesn’t call when he’s late.
Okay, that’s probably not fair. It’s not like Matt to blow me off so completely. But if I’m not pissed off at him, the alternative is worry. What the hell happened to him that he couldn’t send a text? Even if his phone died, he’s on a plane with two dozen buddies.
Maybe the jet’s Wi-Fi died. Unless he was in a car accident! Shit!
You were always on my mind…
I have to get out of here before I lose my ever-loving mind.
In the lobby it takes me only a moment to retrieve my coat. Then I’m hailing a cab and jumping in the back, even though public transportation would be cheaper. Screw it.
My phone rings, startling me.
Matt?
I scramble, but the darned trophy is in the way. I set her on the seat of the cab and grab the phone. And it’s him!
“Matt?” I answer breathlessly. “Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry.” His voice is a scrape. “We were delayed. I’m in a cab heading downtown.”
“You didn’t call! And I…” Assumed the worst. Okay, it’s probably a bad idea to describe the bloody accident I’d conjured with my worried brain.
“I missed your speech,” he mumbles. “Really wanted to hear it, too.”
“That’s okay,” I say automatically. But no, maybe it isn’t okay. “Actually, I wanted you to hear it, too. I was really looking forward to tonight. And well, it was…” I choose my words carefully, trying to process my own flood of emotions. “A disappointment.”
His sigh is weighty. “Can you come over so I can try to make it up to you?”
“I didn’t pack a bag,” I admit. “The morning walk of shame in this dress would be brutal. Can you come to my place?”
“Sure,” he says, his voice gruff. “On my way.”
My cab ride takes too long. They’re doing some late-night utility work on Yonge Street. But eventually we pull up in front of my building. And by the time I pay the driver, a black sedan pulls up, too. As my taxi slides away, Matt’s handsome form unfolds from the backseat of the car. He’s wearing his suit pants and a white shirt—not the tux I thought I’d see tonight. His face is tired, and he’s thrown an old zippered sweatshirt over his clothes. In other words, he’s a mess.
And he’s still the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.
Something softens in my soul when our eyes meet. “Hi babe,” I say, a smile beginning to form.
But his mouth looks tight. He gives me a head-to-toe sweep of his gaze, and then reaches up to rub his face. “Shit,” he says from behind his hands. “You look amazing. But I was supposed to say that
about four hours ago.”
“Well…” Sadness—and about ten feet of pavement—separates us. I pull my wrap a little tighter against the chill. “I wish you’d called so I wouldn’t watch the door all night.”
“I fell asleep.” His eyes close tightly, as if he’s in pain, and then open again. “I crashed out when the jet was on the tarmac in New York. We sat there for more than two hours, but I didn’t wake up until we touched down.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. That explains why he hadn’t warned me. “Just come inside, okay? Let’s put it behind us.”
He doesn’t step away from the car, though. In fact, he keeps a hand on the open door. “I shouldn’t, Hailey.”
“What?” He came all the way over here. How ridiculous to change his mind now. “You have an early skate?”
Sadly, he shakes his head. “No. But it’s always going to happen like this. I show up for everything just after it’s too late. This is how it goes with me.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, suddenly afraid. “Well, I mind a little,” I babble, trying to get a handle on the situation. “But I’m allowed to be frustrated once in a while, right? It doesn’t mean I don’t lo…” Whoops. The L-word almost slipped out. Now is not the time. “Nobody’s life runs smoothly all the time, Matt. I don’t blame you.”
“Right.” He looks at his shoes. “You will, though. Maybe not tonight or next week. But it builds up quick. And maybe that’s just the way it is. You deserve a guy who can show up when it matters.”
“Matt,” I say firmly. “Let’s get some sleep, okay? Things won’t look so grim in the morning.”
“No, baby. I can’t do this again.” He lifts his chin, and his eyes are pained. “Don’t want to be that guy who makes promises he can’t keep. I’ve been that guy. There’s not enough of me to go around. And you’ll only end up hating me.”
His words are starting to sink in. It’s dawning on me that he’s serious about saying goodbye. I become unstuck from my spot on the walkway to my building and hurry to where he’s standing. “Matt. It’s not that bad, honey.” I take his hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “Come inside with me.”