Page 103 of Hate You, Maybe
“At least my Chardonnay survived.” I arrange the wet napkins in a pile and pick up my wine. I take a gulp. Then another. And another.
Madelyn frowns, and with her free hand, she takes my glass.
“Hey! That’s my wine!” I protest, then I almost slip off my stool.
“You’ll thank me later.” She steps away, scrolls through my contacts, and makes a call.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dex
Since Sayla peeled out of the faculty lot, I’ve been an absolute wreck of a man. I can’t stop imagining the worst, figuring she must hate me. At the very least, she’s got to think I lied. After all, I told her Wilford was going to give the FRIG to her department.
What other conclusion could she draw?
When she wouldn’t take my calls or reply to my texts, I enlisted Bridger’s help, and we spent the past three hours searching for her all over town. Separate cars. Divide and conquer. Well, he divided and conquered. I was performing a postmortem on the conversation I had with Wilford two weeks ago, trying to figure out what killed my plan.
And the conclusion is this: I’d gone to his office to convince him Sayla’s department deserved the grant, but he never formally committed to a decision. Not verbally. I guess I just wanted to believe he’d heard my arguments. That he agreed with me.
But he never said the words out loud, did he, Dex?
I feel so stupid now, rushing to surprise Sayla with the news. I wanted to be her hero. So I told her something I shouldn’t have—a fact that wasn’t guaranteed. At some point, he must’ve changed his mind. Or maybe I failed to sway him in the first place. Either way, I found out I was wrong the same time Sayla did.
We were both blindsided.
And the situation has got to look a whole lot like sabotage to her. What I said was the truth, as far as I knew: I’d gone in there with the intention of surrendering the FRIG. But then I asked her not to thank him or say anything about the decision so he could be the one to tell her himself.
To someone with trust issues like Sayla, that probably seems fishy. In hindsight.
Like maybe I went into Wilford’s office that day to plead my own case instead of hers. And that I’ve known all along the money was coming to athletics.
Coming to me.
As far as Sayla’s concerned, I just beat her again. She believed in me. And she lost.
Her face afterward. Oh, man.
I’ll never forget the hollowness in her eyes, her pale cheeks. How heartbroken she looked when she raced out of the parking lot. So I ran to my truck and tried to follow her, but she was already in the wind.
I didn’t go to the football game. First one I’ve skipped in years. But finding Sayla’s my top priority. The only thing I care about. I stopped by her house, but her car wasn’t there, so I knew she didn’t go home. I even thought of all the takeout containers full of leftovers I’ve seen her bring into the lounge for lunch, and I went to every one of the restaurants. No dice.
Now I’m out of ideas, sitting in paid parking across from city hall, when my phone buzzes.
My stomach slams into my throat.
Sayla.
I swipe to accept the call.
“Sayla?” My pulse races through me like jet fuel. I just need a chance to explain myself. “I’m so sorry,” I grit out. “Wherever you are, I’ll come meet you.”
“Hello, Dex.” The low murmur of a voice sounds vaguely familiar, a blast from the past, but this is definitely not Sayla.
My eyes cut up to the clocktower, to the glow of the face, reminding me how many hours it’s been since she took off. She must’ve lost her phone. Or what if she’s hurt? This could be the hospital or a police station or?—
Stop catastrophizing, Dex.
“Who is this?” I growl. “And why do you have Sayla’s phone?”
