Page 94 of The Fall
“But because we went,” he says, sucking in a breath. “Because they found it so early, they’re going to put her on that treatment, the one you were talking about? That personalized immunotherapy. She’s starting next week.” The fear in Hayes’s eyes is still there, but another feeling fights through: hope. “And they say she’s gonna be okay. The prognosis is really, really good.” His jaw wavers. A muscle in his cheek bulges. “Kicks—” His voice cracks. “Torey. You saved her.”
The entire cafeteria, the entire universe, is nothing but the space between his eyes and mine. Hayes’s face blurs, and I blink hard and fast because I will not cry in front of him, in front of everyone. But the burning behind my eyes won’t stop.
“I didn’t—I just mentioned?—”
“No.” Hayes’s voice is fierce, low. “You did.” His hand reaches across the table, stops short of mine. “If we’d waited another month, two months... The doctors said the window would’ve been different.”
The ringing in my ears gets louder. “Hayes…” Everyone’s pretending not to watch us, but they are. “You don’t owe me?—”
“Yeah, I do. Look, you’re a weird one, and you’re awkward as hell, man, but you fucking saved my wife’s life. And you saved me, because I can’t live without her.” He leans forward, says softer, “Your heart? It’s in the right place, but mine hasn’t been. Not with you.”
His words hit me where I didn’t know still had room to ache.
“I didn’t do anything special?—”
“Stop.” My mouth clicks shut. “Stop,” he repeats, softer this time, pleading. He scrubs a hand over his face. For a second, he looks completely wrecked, a man holding up the sky by himself. “You need to hear this, and I need to say this.”
He composes himself, pulling his pieces back together right in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” Hayes chokes out. “For how I have been treating you. I’m really fucking sorry. I’ve been a complete dick to you since day one, and you still—” His voice catches. He looks like a man who ran a marathon and is about to collapse over the finish line. “Can we start over?” He holds out a hand. “Hi. I’m Hayes Emerson.”
I reach across the table to take his. “Torey Kendrick.”
“Good to meet you, Torey Kendrick.” He stands, his eyes kinder than I’ve seen them since I showed up in Tampa. “Let’s do some one-on-ones together, yeah?”
“Yeah. I’d love to, sure. Yeah.” Don’t be a weirdo, Torey.
Hayes grins. “Later, Kicks.” He pushes his chair back, gives the table a quick tap with his knuckles, and heads off.
Conversations start up in uneven bursts, like someone turned the volume wheel up a notch at a time. A couple guys lift their chins at him as he passes; he nods once and keeps moving.
Quiet as ever, the feeling returns: eyes on me, burrowing into my skin and sinew from across the cafeteria. Blair. The awareness of him spreads through me like water finding every crack. I keep my head down.
I wonder how much he heard. The cafeteria’s not exactly private, and Hayes isn’t exactly quiet.
The pressure of Blair’s stare is too much. I can’t hide from it, and I lift my head and peek his way.
He isn’t pretending to watch the muted TV anymore. He’s looking straight at me. The line of his jaw is rigid, the muscle there a tiny, repetitive flicker. The look in his eyes holds a question I can’t decipher. For the first time in a month, I’m not invisible to him, and I don’t know whether to feel relief or terror.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it’s over. His eyes cut away sharply. A moment later, his chair grates against the floor as he pushes back and stands. He moves without looking at me again, shouldering past the tables and out the door.
He’s gone. For all his size and steel, he can disappear when he wants to.
I sit still as stone and try to catch my breath without anyone noticing. The whiplash from Hayes’s confession to Blair’s searing, silent judgment leaves me dizzy. I replay that flicker of his eyes on mine a thousand times in half a heartbeat.
The room swims back into focus, a collection of cutlery clinks and quiet conversation. Glances still slide my way, but they’re different from the hostility of before. I am an anomaly. A problem solved and a new one created in the span of five minutes.
Part of me wants to sink into this chair until the world forgets I exist; part of me wants to stand up and chase after Blair. Instead, I gather myself piece by piece, pushing out a long breath through my nose.
This is all I have.
The farther I wander into the rink’s guts, the darker it gets. I take a corner, and the voices hit me, crawling over the cinderblock walls.
“…treating him like this?”
I stop. That’s Hayes’s voice.
There’s another voice, too, low and serrated. “He’s done. There’s no point pretending.”
