Chapter 20: A Deal With The Devil: Chapter 20

Hayes comes home for lunch, and I sit outside with him. He no longer has to ask me to do it. It’s assumed, and that’s fine. I guess I kind of like the break in my day.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

I tilt my head. “Good as ever. You’re booked solid for three weeks straight, aside from Tuesday two weeks from now.” I’ve also left a weekend open in three weeks, but I haven’t figured out how to convince him to take a vacation just yet.

I expect him to object but he doesn’t even seem to have heard what I said. “Not work. You. Your desperate quest for an orgasm that isn’t self-induced.”

I flush. I wouldn’t call it a desperate quest. More of an ambivalent one, at this point. “Poorly. There are a lot of disgusting human beings on Tinder, and even more who don’t seem all that bright.”

He stabs at his salad—I’m pretty sure he’s picking around the vegetables—and looks over at me. “Give me an example.”

I open up the app and begin scrolling. “Here,” I say, handing him the phone.

He swipes through the photos. “This one looks mostly unobjectionable. Not a single nude pic.”

“Not his photos. His write-up. I love to laugh, he says.”

His eyes are light, crinkling at the corners with suppressed amusement. “You might need to find a very specialized dating site if you’re looking for someone who doesn’t laugh.”

“That’s exactly it!” I exclaim, throwing out my hands. “Who doesn’t love to laugh? You’ve got five hundred words to tell me how you’re special and different, and you basically tell me you’re a human being with needs all humans have. Why not add that you need oxygen to breathe and take in food for sustenance?”

His mouth twitches. “You’re being awfully picky. And Matt didn’t look like the sharpest tool in the shed. You can’t convince me it was his intellect that turned you on.”

I frown. “Matt’s smart,” I argue. “Just not—”

Not smart like you, I very nearly say. Even after all this time, the thought feels disloyal, but I can’t deny it’s true. It’s not as if I felt like something was missing when we were together…but Matt was like a spoon, capable but dull-edged, while Hayes is a blade sharpened to dangerous perfection.

“The things that attract you at fourteen are different than the things that attract you as an adult,” I finally reply.

Hayes’s nostrils flare in disdain. “I don’t understand how you ever thought he was worth your time.”

“When we met, I was a kid and he was already in high school. And he was so cool. I mean, he played two sports and he was dating a senior.” He grins at my emphasis. “I just felt lucky he chose me.”

And then, slowly, I stopped feeling lucky. Maybe it was when I got into Brown, and he convinced me not to go. I agreed in the end, but I remember thinking I wouldn’t have asked this of him. I wouldn’t have put myself first. Or maybe it was in New York when I was working my ass off, but he seemed to be doing more clubbing than auditioning.

I’d still have married him, though, if it hadn’t fallen apart, and for the first time I realize how grateful I am it did. Matt and I could laugh at the same things, but he was never the one who made me laugh. He never inspired that tickling crawl of joy in my rib cage the way Hayes does when he says something ridiculous. And he definitely didn’t kiss like Hayes does, which makes me wonder what else I’ve been missing out on.

“So clearly you’re never going on a date again,” he says, resting his hands on his stomach. “Shall I stop someplace on the way home this afternoon and buy you twenty cats?”

He’s enjoying my singlehood a little too much. His smirk hits like a repeated pinch of a nerve I can’t reach.

My chin goes up and I force a smile I don’t feel. “I’m going on a date,” I reply. I’ve spent the morning assuring myself the night out with Sam is not a date, but Hayes’s smugness needs to come down a notch. “His name is Sam.”

“I thought Tinder was a wasteland full of horrific men who enjoy laughter.”

“I know him from home,” I reply. “He’s the guy who’s been helping me with the book.”

Hayes’s smug smile fades. I see the quirk of his nostrils before a hand runs through his hair. Something in me wants to push and prod at his discomfort until it’s all laid bare.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, setting his bowl down on the side table between us heavily. “It just seems like a bad idea.”