Nova
I can't stop pacing the length of the living room. It's almost six o'clock. Warren hasn't come home or bothered to answer his cell phone. I'm starting to worry. No – that's a lie. I stopped worrying hours ago. I'm freaking out now. He always picks up. This isn't normal. But, then again, this day hasn't exactly been normal.
I start listing all the places we've visited. He could have gone back to any of them. I don't know! And it frustrates me. Why hasn't he come home? Why can't he stop being an ass and answer his phone?
I go over that list, and then try to think like Warren. If I were him, where would I go? I know for a fact that he wouldn't drive four hours to do an over-exertive hike if he's feeling as bad as he looked. He hates shopping, too. That narrows my options down to two places: the pub and the beach. Because of his past actions, I'm leaning more toward the pub.
But there's something about the beach that tugs at me. I think back to the way he acted that day. He was so content and relaxed as he lay on that beach towel and read his book under the hot sun. God, he looked so good. Why did I have to be stupid enough to push him away?
If anything, he'd want to go somewhere quiet and not loud like the pub; he'd want his surroundings to be as relaxing as possible. The look on his face said it all – what happened last night is torturing him. Which confuses me. He's slept with so many women, and I've never seen him react so negatively. One-night stands usually feed his ego, not skewer. I thought he would be happy about adding me to the notches in his bedpost. I can't imagine what getting someone like me into bed would do to his reputation. He'd probably be deemed invincible or something stupid like that, and he'd be happy about it.
But this reaction...it's so different than what I'm used to. The amount of guilt and regret he's suffering from is like an acid to a metal. He would never react that way unless he felt something.
I begin to ponder my assumption. If he's reacting this way, is there a chance that my feelings aren't one-sided? Does he feel something for me and he's just upset that he didn't have the chance to tell me before?
That's it, I decide. I need to find him.
"Hey, Hazel?" I ask, turning to face her.
"Yeah?" she asks, looking up from her phone.
We're in the living room, while Easton and Julia are helping the parents cook dinner. Karen and Cam looked concerned when they realized their son wasn't here, but Hazel concocted a quick lie, saying that Warren and I got into an argument and he took off. It worked, and they both made some comment about young love. I'm so tired of lying and pretending. I want to give up the façade and reveal what's really going on, but I can't because I made a deal.
"Can I borrow your car?" I ask.
"Why?" she frowns.
I glance out the window behind her, the one that has a spectacular view of the ocean.
"Because I think I know where Warren might be."
* * *
The parking lot is empty. Perhaps it's because of the thunderstorm brewing on the horizon. Whatever the reason, there are no vehicles. I bump my head against the steering wheel. I drove here like a maniac, getting lost numerous times. To the point where I had to pull over and look up the directions. Serves me right, though – I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings on our way here. I did all that for nothing. Nothing.
I shift into reverse and start making my way to the pub. If he's not there, I'm going to find myself at a dead end.
The drive to the pub takes me fifteen minutes, and by the time I get there, it's pouring rain and thunder is rumbling above me. Every so often, lightning brightens the sky.
I park as close as I can. It's busy tonight, almost busier than it was last night. Not that I can actually remember how busy it was. The amount of alcohol I consumed was disgusting and irresponsible.
Shaking my head, I push through the entrance. The smell of alcohol makes my still-present hangover hit me, and I have to resist the urge to vomit over the scuffed floor. I never paid attention to what this place looked like: it's nautical and, unlike some of the ones in Vancouver, it's welcoming instead of sleazy; there are two pool tables in the far corner, a stage in the other, and several booths that outline the perimeter. Tables and chairs spot the remaining space. The real spotlight is on the bar itself, though. The wall behind the counter is lined with various and rare types of alcohol. Glasses line several of the shelves. My eyes trail along the seating arrangements attached to the bar. The first three stools are empty, but the fourth is when I see a familiar face.
Relief washes over me. Thank God.
Tentatively, I start walking in his direction. My eyes never stray from him, meaning I see him signal the bartender for another drink. The bartender's sigh is audible, but he doesn't argue. He pours Warren another drink, and I take that as my cue to step in.
Before Warren has a chance to grab the drink and down it like I know he's going to, I reach out and grab his hand.
He jerks back in surprise. Then looks up at me.
"Nova?" he asks in disbelief.
Just by the sound of his voice, I can tell he's one drink away from slurring. I search his face and my heart breaks for him. The pain and regret in his eyes are almost too much for me to handle. He feels this way because of me – because I'm weak and not brave enough to tell him the truth. If I could break down my own walls, I'd be able to tell him how I really feel.
But I'm scared. So scared because the last time I told someone I loved them, they rewarded me with a broken heart. If that happens again...I shake my head. It's not like we'd have a chance. I've made having a real relationship with him near impossible because you can't have a healthy relationship with someone that's wearing a mask.
Hazel was right – I should have told him everything. If I'd said something, he wouldn't be beating himself up; he would know that I was once in a relationship. And he would know that what happened last night wasn't his fault – it was our fault. He needs to know that I don't regret it, that I wanted it to happen and that's why I asked him to take me home; he had my full consent to sleep with me.
"Warren," I say softly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Let's get you home. You need to sleep this off."
When I try to tug him to his feet, he resists. "I'm sorry, Nova," he rambles. "I didn't want that to happen...I mean, I did, but not that way. I just...Fuck."
I have so many things I could say to him. But what's the point when he's not entirely sober?
Instead of talking to him, I turn to the bartender and ask how much he owes for the drinks. Pulling two twenties from my purse, I set them down on the worn wood and tell him to keep the change. At this point I don't care about the money – I just need to get him home so he can recover. The sooner he sobers up, the sooner I can explain everything to him.
I try to tug him up again, and he cooperates, but that's not where the real problem lies; Warren's putting most of his weight on me, which is hard on my body because he's so much bigger than I am.
We eventually make it, though, me sweating in the rain as we walk to the car. The wind is chilling as we walk, and I can't help but marvel at how different an East Coast storm is from a West Coast storm.
Helping Warren get in the passenger seat is a hassle, too.
By the end, I'm frustrated. With him. With myself. With this stupid, complicated situation we've put ourselves in.
Before I can close the passenger door, Warren grabs my hand. Looks up at me and says, "I'm so fucking sorry."
I look away because it's too much. A drunken one-night stand shouldn't be affecting either of us this badly, but it is. And I think I can understand why: we've left our feelings hidden for too long, and now we've expressed them in the wrong way.
"I know, Warren," I whisper. "So please, please let go of my hand and let me close the door so I can get you home. You need to sleep this off. I promise as soon as you're sober, we'll talk."
He helplessly drops my hand.
I close the door without another word.
The drive home is silent and depressing due to the downpour. Getting Warren out of the vehicle, though, is not a repeat of getting him out of the pub because Hazel jogs out to the car as soon as I'm parked in the driveway.
"Oh my God, Warren," she says as soon as he's stepped out. She throws her arms around her brother. "Why the hell didn't you answer your phone? I was so scared."
Warren mumbles something into her shoulder.
"Thanks, Hazel," I say, giving the keys back to her. "Is there any way you could get East or Julia to drive back down to the pub with you? The vehicle we rented is still there, and it needs to be picked up before the night ends or else they could tow it."
"I'll leave after he's been situated," she replies, her voice close to a shout because of the rain.
With that, the two of us walk him up to the front door. I watch him carefully the whole way, making sure he doesn't stumble or slip on the wet cobblestone.
It takes Hazel and I a grand total of five minutes to get him upstairs to the bedroom. We don't bother making him change; we simply guide him to the bed and tell him to go to sleep. I think he falls asleep before his head even hits the pillow.
"He's always been like that," Hazel says, looking at her brother. She brushes a piece of sopping wet hair away from her face. "Whenever he's upset, he works out like you would not believe. Judging by how quickly he fell asleep, it's more the tiredness than the alcohol that's affecting him."
I nod, silently thanking the world. The last thing he needs is to have another hangover.
"Are you two going to be okay?" Hazel asks.
"I...I think so," I reply slowly. "You were right, though – I should've told him sooner than later. If I'd known this would be the result..." I trail off, thinking about how he acted. "Hazel, do you know why he's so upset? I can't seem to wrap my head around it when he's done this many, many times. I'm just another girl."
Hazel motions for me to follow her. When we're out in the hallway, door to the bedroom closed, she speaks. "He's mad at himself, Nova, because he's confused. Think about it – he sleeps with women, but there are no strings attached because he's never gotten to know them for who they are. You? You two have unwillingly been getting to know each other since January, and then you both agree to play make-believe for the summer. Didn't you ever think that this would eventually happen? You know him better than any girl ever has, and he knows you. That creates a bond."
I frown. "So...he's mad because we got to know each other?"
My friend sighs. "You really don't get it, do you?"
I shake my head.
"He's never been in love with a woman before, so he's scared to make mistakes and screw everything up. This" – she makes an enthusiastic hand gesture to the door behind me – "made him mad because he wanted you to make the choice, soberly. Now he thinks he's just used you and that you're upset."
My heart skips a beat.
"Nova," Hazel says softly. "He loves you. I don't think he's actually admitted it to himself yet, but I can tell. Now all you have to do is figure out what you want. It's obvious you want him, too, but I know your heart is still being tugged in a different direction. Figure that out and everything will be okay."
Even though I was expecting those words, they catch me off guard. I suddenly feel like I'm tumbling down a steep incline at an unstoppable speed. Running a hand through my wet hair, I try to make sense of what she's told me. Everything makes sense – why he would be so upset. If that's really the case...I look up at Hazel.
"I have to tell him," I say.
Hazel gives me a small smile and reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. "Do it as soon as he wakes up. East and I will be back in half an hour or so with the car, okay?"
I nod, and then I'm watching Hazel walk down the hallway, my mind still spinning out of control.
He loves me, I think to myself as I wander aimlessly back into the bedroom. I sit down on the edge of the bed and reach out to brush a strand of his dark chocolate brown hair away from his face.
I don't understand why I would fall for him, of all the people I could choose from, but I have. Desperately. Out of control. Although it scares me greatly, it also excites me in many ways.
And because of that, I think my heart is finally ready.
I just have to be brave enough to start a conversation that matters.