Page 11 of Falling for Hailey

My wardrobe was not much, to be honest. Shorts and tanks and tees, a skirt and sundress I got at Goodwill last year, and a couple of cardigans for when I got cold. I tried to pick out my nicest clothes, and I almost messaged Maria to see if I could borrow a cute top. She was a genius at thrifting and had some gorgeous vintage finds, but if I texted, she’d want to know why I needed to dress up to go to her mom’s house. In the end I just put on a black tank and my pink cardigan and settled for looking kind of preppy. When Maria arrived, I grabbed my fruit tray, and we took off.

She chatted about the piece she was working on in the studio she shared—it was commissioned work for a woman who saw her flier in a coffee shop and called to order a custom candelabra.

“It’s organic and very fluid, and I’m using matte white so it looks like bone. I’m going to do some detail shading when I’m done to really elevate it. I’m so excited, Hay.”

“It sounds amazing,” I said. “Send me pictures!”

“I will! I’m going to use it on my web site. Because this job pays enough I can finally get my website up and running so I can take commissions from anywhere.”

“I’m so proud of you!” I gushed. “This is so cool. You’re going to be one of those chic, worldly artists who wears, like, a gorgeous scarf she got at a bazaar in Marrakesh and is always just getting back from an exotic vacation.”

“That’s the dream, babe,” she laughed.

At her parents’ house, I took off my flip flops, put the fruit tray in the kitchen and hugged her mom and dad. Then I sat on the living room floor with Maria and played with their kittens. I had Oreo standing on her hind legs batting at a scrap of paper with her paws, and it was so sweet that Maria and I were cooing and squealing over it.

“What you two need is babies,” her mom said, half teasing, “you make such a fuss of those cats. Babies are much cuter.”

“Mom, Hailey’s going to be a marketing exec and I’m going to be an exotic scarf-wearing artist,” Maria said.

“Yes,” I said. “From a foreign country. Did you tell them about your commission?” I prompted.

“The bone sticks?” her mom asked. “Yes, she told me all about them. Why that woman wants a candle to look like it is coming out of bones is a mystery to me, but if anyone can make a good one, it is my Maria.”

“See, she’s proud of you,” I whispered, “she just likes babies better than bone sticks.” I tried not to laugh but Maria wasn’t so lucky, and she cracked up. Her mom rolled her eyes and went to check the food.

Rick joined us right as dinner was served, bringing his mom a big bouquet of sunflowers. “I didn’t want to get you a vase because Maria makes better ones and I know you have a few.”

“My boy!” His mom said, kissing his cheek and taking the flowers. “I know just where to put them.

I felt shy and looked down at my plate when he was greeting everyone, as if I shouldn’t be there. But it would have been awkward to refuse the invitation when Maria was my best friend, and I couldn’t exactly have told her, ‘you know I can’t come to dinner at your parents’ house because I’ve been having elaborate sexual fantasies about your brother.’ So I sat and ate the killer tamales that Mrs. Esperanza was famous for and watched in amazement as whip-smart, take no prisoners, Mr. Esperanza the professor relaxed into warm and funny Rick, devoted son and teasing brother. The transformation was seductive, like he shed his armor at the door.

“How is school, my Hailey?” Mrs. Esperanza asked.

“It’s good. I have some interesting classes this semester—although one of my professors is so tough, I don’t know if I’ll survive,” I said mischievously.

“My Ricky?” she said knowingly. “He is the hardest to please, always has been, everything must be perfect. It is because he is so hard on himself, even when he was a little boy. You would think he was born carrying the weight of the world. He wants to make you students strong enough to be successful,” she said.

“We’ll be strong when he’s done with us or we’ll quit the program in tears,” I teased.

“What’s your drop out rate, Ricky?” Maria said. “Still the highest in the school of business?”

“If they can’t handle pressure and turn out a high standard of work, they should go sell fries in a drive through window,” he said. “People with excuses, people who don’t make an effort—they don’t belong in the marketing program or at Berkley at all.”

“So the student support and tutoring services?” I asked. “Should we drop those and just play Welcome to Sparta?”

“Make an A on your project or come home on your shield. Absolutely,” he quipped, and I laughed. He was flirting, playing with me, and the banter between us was sharp and seductive.

“So if I make a B, do I have to surrender my shield or my helmet?” I asked.

“Neither. I just send your personal effects home in a box with a letter of condolence,” he said. “Not that you’d ever make a B.”

I smiled a little under that praise, the fact that he clearly thought I was too smart to get anything but the highest grades.

“I’ve made B’s before.”

“Let me guess, on group projects where someone else was slacking despite your best effort? I’ve seen your work, and you don’t settle for second best. You’ll even drag your lazy classmates into the light with you if you can.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I’d hate to see them go home on their shields if I can save them.”

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