Page 52 of Hiding from Hope

“You fuckers ordering or wasting my time?” I flip a tea towel over my shoulder.

“I’ll just have a latte. We’ll get it to go and get out of your hair, but you should come by Bozzelli’s.” I nod and start on the latte.

“Caleb? Coffee?”

“Uhh…” He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders, mustering what I assume is confidence. “Yeah, I’ll just get a black coffee.” He stands, bobbing his head like we can’t see right through him. He slides his sunglasses over his eyes and plasters on the biggest boyish grin I’ve ever seen. I roll my eyes and finish making their coffee.

Sliding it over to them, they stand and take it, sliding over a note each in payment.

“Bozzelli’s?” Noah asks. I nod.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

Caleb throws out a fist, and I look at it, then at him, raising an eyebrow.

“What? C’mon, man, we’re buddies!” he says, exasperated. I shake my head at him, but knock my fist with his, shaking off that odd feeling.

I haven’t had ‘buddies’ in a while, and I hate thinking about that. After high school, my life revolved around Jenny. She consumed me. I wanted nothing other than to be around her.

Perhaps that was our downfall? Maybe I really did smother her.

I lost contact with all my college friends. Well, really, I just shut myself off. I had Chloe, but Jenny wasn’t comfortable with her, so I also closed myself off from her, too.

It’s oddly comforting to have people who seem eager to hang out, who appear interested in my company. Oddly comforting, but also gives me an itch, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I suppose I can stomach it, put up with these idiots, as long as it doesn’t turn into the Spanish Inquisition of my fucking love life again.

I came home to shower before I met with the guys–still plagued with those images of Casey. I sorted myself out, again, before getting distracted with a fresh word document open on my laptop. Writing had become my escape. Spinning a world of fiction from my own baggage as a way of dealing and processing. Getting lost in another world, another mind, where nothing else matters. It allowed me to sleep, sometimes dream, where I could control the story, what it looked like and where it went. Now, with two thousand words written, I am officially shocked. This time doesn’t feel like the first manuscript. This time is different. I hadn’t wanted to escape reality because it was too painful, instead I want to exist in a dream where I allow myself what I actually want. I am officially lost in a world where there are no consequences for going after what–or who–I want.

I can’t find my other manuscript, no matter how hard I’ve tried to search for it, and maybe it’s a sign. Too much pain and misery. This one–I think this one is different. I don’t really know where it’s going, but for the first time in a while, I feel a little spark of hope.

“Shit.” The downside of writing is that I usually lose track of everything else. I check the time and quickly close the laptop, flicking a quick response back, and head for the door.

The bar is only a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment, so I head out. The air is cool, the closer we get to the end of the year, so I grab a coat. The sun is setting, sitting close enough to the horizon that the sky is painted in navy blue and purples, lights lining the streets, which are just as busy as they are at every minute of the day in this city. Admiring the landscape, taking in the park, the warm oranges and yellows of the fallen leaves, as I cut through, maybe making the walk longer, but it’s certainly a more scenic route when my phone chimes again.

We’ve barely spoken since the other night. She came so hard on my fingers, I kissed the fuck out of her pretty face, and then I cooked her dinner and said goodnight. It was the best, most domesticated and confusing twenty-four hours of my life, and I have no idea how to talk about it.

I knew she was going to say something at dinner. I knew it was going to be something I hated. She was going to tell me it was a mistake, that we should forget, but I couldn’t if I tried, and I don’t want to put pressure on her. I also know I can’t label it. I saw her wanting to talk feelings, and I just fucking bailed. And now? Partners Yoga?

Like fuck.

I arrive at Bozzelli’s and tuck my phone into my pocket. Navigating through the throng of people and finding the table with the guys. Caleb throws his stupid knuckles at me again, and the rest of the guys nod in greeting.

Stella walks over with their order and stops by me. “What can I get you?”

“Whiskey, neat. Thanks.” I nod at her, noting the dark circles under her eyes, but look away quickly enough not to stare. A small pit of concern for her forms low in my stomach, but I work to bury it. Finding the energy to even be here with the guys was hard enough, let alone branching out into a personal conversation about an acquaintance’s well-being. I didn’t need the added guilt for not asking if she was okay, so I try to bury those sudden and frustrating feelings. Her eyes narrow slightly, obviously clocking my split-second look of concern, and somehow, I feel like she just read my mind. Appearing on the same page as me and wanting to avoid the socialization, she turns around as I tune into the table conversation.

“I’m telling you, it’s the long game. As long as I pretend she doesn’t exist, but give her little looks every now and then, she’ll be begging me to take her home,” Caleb informs us as Noah and Matt laugh. Lucas and Ethan just share a similar eye-rolling, exasperated look.

“What poor innocent soul are you targeting tonight, Smith?” I ask him, and his boy-ish grin hits me from across the table.

“Your three o’clock.” He tilts his head in the direction and I look over. Seeing who he is referring to and dropping my head in an honest chuckle before returning to him. She’s a pretty little thing, dressed in a pencil skirt and blouse and looks to be giggling with her friends. She couldn’t be less interested in Caleb’s gaze, and from the way her male companion is cozied up to her, I’d hazard a guess she isn’t even available.

I’m sure that isn’t much of a hurdle for our resident fuckboy, though.

“Not a chance,” I mumble as Stella walks by, dropping my whiskey, collecting empties, and heading back to the bar, and I catch Ethan’s lingering stare, the concern matching mine from a minute ago before it’s gone. Good, let him concern himself with her wellbeing. I have enough bullshit to work through.

I sip as Caleb darts his confused eyes from me to his next victim.

“Why not?”

---