Headlights

03 Him

No proof, not much, but you saw enough.

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She had been waiting at her window seat for a while now. She had tried to convince herself several times already that it was because of the optimal lighting, but every time, a shrewder part of her stood up and said, with tiny glasses perched on her nose, "You're such a bad liar, Hailey." So she set down her book and satisfied herself with staring at a spot of an unknown origin on the other side of the glass.

She was wasting a lot of time right now, she told herself. There was that new report that her boss had sent to her three hours ago, and then she would have to take Vincent out for hot chocolate at one point or another this weekend. Why didn't she get started on those now that she wasn't boggled down with obligations?

She hurled her book across the room at her dining table. It crashed into the bowl of fake fruit in the center of the table with a satisfying thump and skidded for a couple seconds before sliding off the edge and landing on the ground. She couldn't help wincing. Now she would have to pick up the fake fruit too. Why didn't she think before she acted?

"Come on, Calvin!" she shouted at the window. "Why are you late?"

Men weren't supposed to be late. They were supposed to be early, if not at least on time. But now it was already twenty minutes past three. And for God's sake, he wouldn't pick up his damn phone.

She yawned and stretched against the side of the window. A nap didn't sound too bad, considering she hadn't had a full night's sleep since the summer of junior year back in high school.

She leaned her head against the side of her window and closed her eyes. Maybe she should just leave and do something useful—something she didn't do very often. But maybe she should wait more. And maybe she should sleep a little... She had all the time in the world in her hands after all.

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Someone was tapping very loudly by her ear on the window. She parted her lips, which had fused together, probably from their inactivity, and opened her eyes slowly, hoping that she didn't look like a ruffled cat. Who in the world would be here at 5:30PM on a Saturday afternoon? God, she hoped it wasn't Teagan. She thought her friend had already had enough of seeing her mope around by the bar instead of on the dancefloor.

But when she turned her head, she met a pair of very green eyes, which were still visible even in the blue-peach sky. She spat out a curse, jumping onto her feet. Her shirt had sagged down while she was taking her nap, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Why was that bastard here—two hours late at that? If he wanted to give up on her, he should have made that decision a long time ago.

She walked as quickly as she could with her numb legs to the front door. When she opened it, he was already there, leaning against the doorframe as if he owned the place, that infuriating asshole. "What?" she snapped.

Yet as soon as he stared at her squarely in her eyes, it seemed like every emotion she had been experiencing in the past three hours drained away to be replaced with something else. Something else—she wasn't sure what it was, but she stepped aside to let him in.

"You've got a nice place here," he remarked as he stepped in. He turned around back to her. "I always knew your house would be something like this."

"Like what?" She closed the door behind her and crossed her arms.

"Small. Cozy. Comforting. You know. Like the acoustic stuff you listen to." He shrugged. "It looks like something straight out of a magazine, if I have to be completely honest."