Page 65 of The Way I Hate Him
“Who are you texting?” Maggie asks. “Because you’re smiling.”
I look up at her and drop the corners of my mouth. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” she replies. “You were smiling. So tell me who the hell you were texting, and if you say Matt, I’m going to scream.”
“It wasn’t Matt,” I say, feeling slightly embarrassed that she caught me smiling when I didn’t even know I was smiling. “It was Hayes.”
“Hayes Farrow,” Maggie silently whispers as she moves—I mean floats, she’s actually floating from the sound of his name—into my studio. “Why were you texting him?”
“He offered to let us stay at his place while you were here because he knows how small my apartment is.”
“Well, what the hell are we waiting for?” she asks as she tugs on my arm toward the door. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Laughing, I say, “Wait, I need to pack my stuff first.”
“Hurry up. We can’t be wasting any time. Hayes needs us.”
Good . . . God . . .
I can already tell this is going to be a bad idea.
* * *
“It’s beautiful,”Maggie says, hands clutched together, looking up at Hayes’s house, her face practically pressed against the window of his vehicle, which she gushed over as well.
“Maggie, what did we talk about on the way over here?”
“Being cool, I don’t need a reminder. Trust me, I’m as cool as a cucum—oh my God, he’s opening the door.”
“Maggie . . . please,” I beg of her.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she says as Hayes appears at the front door wearing black jeans and a worn Eagles T-shirt with some holes around the collar. And, of course, he’s wearing a backward hat in typical Hayes fashion. “Ahhh,” she screams as she pops out of the car and runs right up to him, hugging him.
Jesus.
Christ.
I watch as my best friend barrels into him and the surprised look on Hayes’s face as he wraps his arms around her, her face burying itself into his chest.
Mortified, I get out of the car as well, just in time to hear Maggie say, “Oh my God, I love you so much. Everything about you. Your look, your attitude, your music. You breathe life into my soul on a daily basis. Without you, I’d be dead, absolutely dead. So freaking dead. But I’m not, because you exist and your magical guitar-playing hands exist.” She lifts his hand and twiddles his fingers. “Ooo, look at those well-earned calluses. Calluses that have graced this world with your beautiful, bone-chilling music.”
This was a huge mistake.
“And look at your eyes.” She grips his cheeks and pulls him in closer to get a better look at him. “Holy shit, Hattie, have you seen his eyes? They’re so much grayer in person like I’m almost staring into a mirror. Look at those things. I’ve never seen anything like it. And these pecs.” She slaps the palm of her hands to his chest and gives him a solid fondling.
“Maggie, don’t touch him.”This is so humiliating.
“They’re so beefy. You should really wear tighter shirts to show them off, or do more shirtless cologne ads. I mean, sure, I’ve bookmarked every single one I’ve seen for research purposes, but I think the world needs more. I’m a wedding planner, and sometimes the grooms tell me they want to get in shape for the wedding, so I send them some Hayes Farrow inspiration . . . that’s a lie.” She shakes her head. “The inspiration is for me, and me alone . . . if you know what I mean.” She elbows him knowingly in the stomach.
“Maggie,” I hiss.
“And honestly, I never would have known about you unless it was for Hattie. I remember the first time I heard your music.”
Oh fuck!
No, Maggie, nooooo . . .
“Maggie, let’s not—”
