Page 53 of A Deal with the Devil

I laugh. “I love that you’ve managed to insult me while discussing the work of an author who’s been dead for centuries.”

It feels as if we’re both kids again, ripping on each other while we sit outside between classes. We’ve always gotten along well, though. If I’d met him back before I got together with Matt, I’d have thought we were soulmates. And who’s to say we wouldn’t have been? Who’s to say we still aren’t? It’s the plot of every other second-chance romance: Boy and girl don’t get together as teens, only to see as adults what was there all along.

The one person who isn’t amused by the conversation is Hayes, whose face is suddenly all angles—sharp cheekbones, hard jaw—as his eyes flicker from me to Sam and back. Perhaps he’s seeing what I am now: that there’s no reason Sam and I shouldn’t be together. We’re from the same place. We get along well and could talk about books for hours. If only I was ready for it, which I’m not. Sam is perfect for me, but once we move forward, there’ll be no way to walk it back. I somber a little at the thought.

Hayes insists on paying for dinner when the bill arrives, as well he should since he sort of ruined it. John politely excuses himself for the evening, but Hayes is almost defiant in his quest to remain. “Where to next?” he asks, signing the bill with a flourish.

I’m torn between irritation and relief. Hayes has no right to interfere the way he is, but it’s also clear Sam wants more, and the prospect terrifies me.

“It’s already ten,” I say. “And my boss is a dick, so I need to get to bed.”

“Where are you parked?” asks Hayes. “I’ll walk you.”

Sam’s jaw shifts. He’s frustrated but too nice—unlike Hayes—to argue. I apologize as I hug him goodbye.

“That’s okay,” he says against my ear. “I’ll see you next month. Without him.”

The night is a lovely violet-black, the sky dotted with stars, and I’m too annoyed to fully appreciate it. Hayes matches me step for step, and it’s only at the end of the block I realize he’s scowling.

“You look awfully dissatisfied,” I mutter. “Was ruining my night with an old friend not enough for you?”

“Believe me,” he sneers, “if I’d known you’d spend the entire meal arguing over Thomas Hardy like the two nerdiest kids in school, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

I come to a stop, rounding on him. “You barge in on my night out with an old friend, and now you’re ridiculing him and me for having a common interest? I know you mostly spend time with people who don’t read, but there’s nothing wrong with the fact we do.”

People walking past stare at us, and I don’t even care. He barely seems to notice them as he pushes a hand through his hair, looking as frustrated as I feel. “Look, I was...I didn’t expect him to be...” He blows out a breath. “I like that you have an encyclopedic knowledge of Thomas Hardy. I like that you’re well read, far better read than I am. But you and I get along in a way I don’t with anyone else, and I guess it bothered me to see that you get along just as well with him.”

Under the glare of the streetlight, I see a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. He’s known for having superficial relationships, but ours…isn’t, and his honesty right now makes that clear. I feel myself softening toward him against my will.

“You’re jealous of my friendship with Sam?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not jealous. And if you think he wants to be your friend, you’re delusional. He’d have proposed by the end of the night if I hadn’t intervened.”

“Why would it matter if he did, Hayes?” I ask. I don’t know where the question comes from, but there’s a part of me that wants to provoke him. I want to push him toward something, something that would be terrible for us both.

He tugs at his collar. “Because you said you weren’t ready for that. And he’s not...good enough.”

“Not good enough?” I demand. “A really nice guy who’s about to be a college professor and has never cheated on a woman in his life. How could he possibly not be good enough?”

“You like him, then.” His mouth is pressed into a flat line.

“How can I even know when you hovered all night like a third party on our dinner?” My eyes narrow. “And please don’t make a joke about threesomes.”

His gaze holds mine. “If it were an option,” he says, suddenly fierce, “I’d never be willing to share you.”

My heart stutters and then speeds up.

If it were an option. There’s a part of me—the stupid part that clearly hasn’t learned its lesson—that wants to ask why it’s not.

I don’t look away, and neither does he. We stand in silence, with the words he just said thickening the air between us. They could have meant a hundred different things, and I choose not to let myself consider any of them.

“Good night, Hayes,” I whisper, and then, without looking back, I walk the rest of the way to my car alone. He doesn’t try to stop me.

If it were an option, I’d never be willing to share you.

I can’t seem to move past that phrase as I drive home. Allowing myself to hope it could mean something is ridiculous and pointless, but the more I think about leaving California, the more it feels like I’m giving up something that matters and matters a lot.

By the time I start climbing the stairs to my apartment, I’m reciting a mantra with each step: