Page 53 of Salvation
Wiping my tears away, I stand up and shrug. “Yeah, but you love her.”
Hayes’s eyes soften. “Yeah, I do, and the truth is, I’d do anything she asks—even if I look like an idiot—because she’s carrying my baby. For that alone, she deserves the world.”
My throat aches when I swallow. “Yeah. She does.”
Ivy did, too. Still does. Instead, she faced her pregnancy alone.
“So,” Hayes says slowly, “what are you doing here?”
I flick my gaze around the room, looking everywhere but at him. “I was hoping we could talk. We left things on a bad note.”
I expect him to scoff and place the blame on me, but instead, he just nods.
“Yeah, we can talk. Want something to eat?”
And just like that, the tension fades between us, feeling a little bit like it used to. Pulling out a stool, I sit down at the island in the center of the kitchen. “I could eat.”
Hayes busies himself with making us each a plate of food, and I pick at my thumbnail, knowing that eventually I’ll have to talk. When he’s done making our plates, he walks over, sets mine in front of me, and pulls out the stool. It’s just bacon andeggs, but I dig in like it’s a feast—mainly to give me a few more minutes to think before I start apologizing. Picking up my fork, I take a big bite while he sits down, but he doesn’t start eating immediately. Instead, he turns to me and stares at the side of my face.
“I’m sorry.”
His words take me by surprise, and I cough, choking on my food a little bit.
“For what?” I ask when I can finally breathe again.
“Because you always should have been able to talk to me, even if you hid from the rest of the world. You’re one of my best friends, man, and I—” he stops, shaking his head, “I feel like I failed you.”
Setting my fork back on my plate, I turn toward my best friend. “You didn’t fail me, Hayes. You had your own problems you were dealing with, and I became good at hiding mine.”
“Why, though?” he asks, his eyes piercing through me. “Why did you feel like you had to hide it? Was it because I didn’t handle Langston’s death well because no matter what, man, I would have been there for you.”
“That wasn’t it—not exactly. I mean, part of me didn’t want to add to everything you were going through, but mostly it’s because I didn’t want anyone to know how bad it’d gotten. Because what kind of man am I, Hayes?” My voice cracks, and I turn away, unable to face him.
It’s a rhetorical question based on years of feeling like I’m less of a man compared to the men around me, but Hayes answers anyway.
“A good one.”
“I don’t know about that.” I deny, but Hayes doesn’t let it go.
“Fine. Then explain it to me, Campbell. What is your definition of a good man?”
I pause for a second, really thinking about my answer. “I think a good man is someone who doesn’t break under pressure. Someone who can handle the tough stuff and doesn’t let his emotions win. A good man does not cry.”
“Well, hell. If that’s what it takes, then I guess I’m not much of a man either,” he says, swiping his hand over his mouth. “Now, let me tell you my definition of a good man. To me, a good man is someone honest,includingabout things he’s feeling. He cares about his friends and family, and he loves the Lord. That’s all, Campbell. In my mind, that’s all it takes to be a good man, and you fit every one of those. So you can sit here and tell me you aren’t a good man, but I won’t believe you. Answer me this, though—if you think talking about this makes you less of a man, then what are you doing here? Why are we having this conversation now?”
I pick up my fork again, dragging the food around and keeping my gaze firmly on my plate. “Because I met my daughter.”
This time, it’s Hayes’s turn to choke. “Yeah, I guess that would do it, but I thought you said you weren’t going to. What changed?”
I put a little too much pressure on the fork, and it scratches against the glass plate, making a noise worse than nails on a chalkboard. I wince and drop it back down, going back to picking at the corner of my thumbnail. There’s a hangnail there that I’ve been pulling at for weeks. It’s raw and inflamed, but every time I try to let it heal, I find myself picking at it again.
“She came to me.”
“Yeah, I can see how that would change things,” Hayes says. He scratches at his jaw, and I press harder against my nail. “So—what’s she like?”
The smile that pulls at the corner of my lips feels foreign, and it hits me that it’s because it’s genuine.
“She’s nothing like I expected, and everything I’ve dreamed about.”
