A Deal with the Devil by Elizabeth O’Roark

25

Ileave Sunday morning and am recovered enough to grab dinner with Drew that evening. She tells me about her trip, and I decide there is no saving Six—he’s an awful human being.

I want to talk about Hayes, but find that I just can’t. My thoughts about the past few days with him are…jumbled, not ready to be said aloud. Because once upon a time, he was simply a charming degenerate I wanted to take care of and now he’s more. There’s this small, warm thing unfurling in my chest when I think of him. I feel like a lighter, sunnier version of myself, a hopeful version I almost forgot existed. And I’m not sure if that thrills or terrifies me.

I arrive at Hayes’s house the next day fully recovered and strangely eager to see him. When he enters the kitchen—his gaze sliding over me, top to bottom—it’s as if I’m a little more complete than I was before he walked in. As if he, of all people, is my home, my safe place to land.

I hand him his coffee. “I didn’t spit in it today. To thank you for taking care of me.”

He laughs. “You’ve made that joke enough times that I’m forced to assume there’s some truth to it.”

I pull his schedule off the printer. He had to squeeze this weekend’s patients into every free hour this week. “No lunch at home today,” I say. There’s a regrettable hint of sadness in my voice.

His dimple tucks in, just for a moment. He clears his throat. “Do you think you could meet me downtown once I’m done?” he asks. “Just to go over the monthly schedule?”

There is no real reason for us to meet. We could discuss everything by phone in five minutes, plus I’ve got my non-date with Sam tonight.

Yet I’ve never agreed to anything more eagerly.

* * *

I drive to the bar,swearing to myself I won’t have a drink. I want my wits about me when I meet up with Sam, for one thing. Plus, I already know how it goes with Hayes. Get a single ounce of liquor in my system and I start looking at him differently. My eyes will linger on the curves of his face, on his perfect mouth, on his broad shoulders and the way he wears his clothes, as if he’s constantly restraining himself from removing them. Which is not what eyes are supposed to do when you hang out with a friend, or a boss.

He's already waiting when I arrive. His jacket is off, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, and I find my eyes dipping to the hint of skin beneath his collarbone. My memories from being sick are blurred and dreamlike, but I remember the way he moved as he pulled off his shirt…testosterone-fueled and careless. I remember his smooth skin, his arms, those surprising abs.

He’s got a margarita waiting for me. I decide a drink is called for, after all…I need to cool off.

“How would you feel about coming up to San Francisco with me in a few weeks?” he asks.

I blink. It takes me a moment to remember he’s got a conference there, but I still wonder if he’s asking me to come as his assistant or something else. I’d probably say yes either way.

“You’d have your own room, of course,” he adds, “and it’s only for the one night. Fly up Saturday morning, back on Sunday. I just...things go wrong. If the handouts are lost or something needs to be done, it would be good to have you there.”

I feel something sink in my stomach. Disappointment, when there should only be relief. Did I really think for a moment he was inviting me on a trip? Apparently, I did.

I take a long sip of my drink, licking the salt from my lips with relish. His eyes seem to snag on my mouth as I do it. “I’m dying to see San Francisco. Just get me up there and I’ll find a park to sleep in.”

“Excellent,” he says with a smirk. “More money for me to spend on cocaine and souvenirs.”

I hesitate suddenly. As much as I’d love to go to San Francisco, and go there with him especially…what if he reverts to his old ways? I’m not sure I can stand to watch him carrying on with some brilliant, hot doctor while I pathetically wait nearby, notebook in hand. “I won’t be...in your way? I imagine these conferences are like Woodstock for medical geeks.”

He laughs. “You’ve clearly never attended a medical conference.”

“Don’t act as if you’ve never done it,” I mutter. “You’re a walking sexual proposition.”

His tongue goes to his cheek, amused. “You’re saying, then, that my mere existence makes you long for sex?” He leans forward, a seductive tone to his voice. Smirk in place. “That I walk through a room and make you think of all the itches you’d like to scratch?”

Yes.

“No, although occasionally the sight of you makes me wonder if STDs itch, which I suppose is sort of similar.” I glance at my watch. “And on that note, I need to get going.”

He looks at me over his drink. “Is there a Jane Austen marathon tonight I’m unaware of?”

“I’m meeting Sam for dinner,” I tell him. “The guy from home who’s been helping me with the book. It’s not a date. We’re just meeting at Mezcal for a quick meal and his friend will be there.”

A vein throbs in his temple and his grip tightens on his glass. “Right. Your buddy Sam is making you feel comfortable by inviting his friend, but after a few minutes his friend will announce that he can’t stay.” He rolls his eyes, irritated and bored simultaneously. “It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“You’d know,” I reply, rising. “Fortunately, Sam is nothing like you.”

“He’s unattractive and dull?” Hayes asks lazily, reclining in his seat. “Seems like you shouldn’t be rushing off then.”

“He’s trustworthy,” I reply pointedly.

“And I’m not?” He’s as smug and confident as ever, smirking even now, but I sense some tiny wounded thing beneath it.

“Twenty-four hours of celibacy don’t make you a candidate for sainthood,” I reply. He doesn’t argue, and I leave feeling as if I just took a cheap shot. I guess I was hoping he’d tell me I was wrong.

* * *

The restaurant Sam’schosen is spacious and bright, with open-air walls, polished wide-plank floors, and an exposed beam ceiling. It seems an expensive choice for a guy living off a school stipend.

I find him sitting on the patio and do a double-take. Holy shit. Sam has gotten seriously hot since the last time I saw him. His hair is down to his shoulders now, and he’s lost that residual bit of childhood softness from his face, revealing a jawline worthy of a superhero. That, plus the nerdy little glasses (which did it for me even before he acquired the jawline), make him absolutely edible. The women behind him have not failed to notice his looks either. Construction workers ogle with more subtlety.

“Hey, stranger,” I say as I reach the table.

“Tali!” He stands, pulling me into a bear hug. He’s added a fair amount of muscle onto his formerly wiry frame. I can’t begin to imagine the swooning that will ensue once he’s a professor.

When I pull away, he gives me a once-over. “I’m digging the whole naughty secretary look.”

I punch his arm. “These are my work clothes, asshole.”

He grins. “I bet your dick of a boss enjoys them, is all I’m saying.”

A hand is thrust toward me. “I’m John,” says his friend. “Not staying long. Just wanted to meet the infamous author, Natalia Bell, who Sam never shuts up about.”

Sam gives me a sheepish smile as we sit. Maybe I spoke too soon about Hayes being slightly worse than most men.

“I read the new pages,” Sam says, pouring me a margarita from the pitcher on the table. “I hate Ewan a little less, now that he’s blameless about turning into a douche.”

I give a sigh of relief. “Thank God. My poor agent is emailing me daily about getting the final first half, and I still have most of the second half to write.”

He shrugs. “You have plenty of time, and isn’t your job almost done? Your friend ought to be back any day now, right?”

My stomach gives a lurch. In two months, Hayes has become such a big part of my life that the future days without him spin ahead like a black hole. Will we be friends when this ends? Even if I manage to stay, California’s sunshine, in this imagined future without him, feels like a slap in the face, like the clear blue sky overhead during my father’s funeral, a group of teens blasting rap as they drove past.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “They’re mostly through the process.” Jonathan will take a few weeks to get settled into parenting after he returns on Tuesday, and then it will be over. I’ll have no excuse to stay behind, to keep Hayes from working himself to the bone or dying of scurvy.

The women at the table next to ours are suddenly staring at us again. No, not at us—behind us, at someone walking through the restaurant. A shadow looms over our table, and I glance up to find Hayes standing there. I just saw him a few minutes ago, yet my eyes devour him anyway, as if I’d forgotten in that brief period of time exactly how pretty he is.

I straighten, pulling my phone forward to see if I missed a text.

“Hey,” I say, glancing from him to my phone. “Did you need something?”

“Not at all,” he says with a smile that’s a hint too smug. “I was just walking down the street and suddenly was craving tacos.”

Bullshit. Hayes has never craved anything but scotch, coffee, and orgasms, as far as I know. I don’t understand how I can be happy to see him and deeply annoyed, all at once, but I am. “Sam, John...this is my boss, Hayes Flynn.”

“Boss and amusement park companion,” corrects Hayes, extending a hand to Sam. “Don’t be fooled by her current lack of warmth. She adores me. You don’t mind if I join, I hope? I’m famished.”

Before we can even object, he’s taking the empty seat between Sam and myself. My jaw falls open, but Sam is a nice boy, far too polite to send Hayes on his way, though I can tell he’d like to.

“Tali tells me you’re driving up the coast,” says Hayes.

Sam forces a smile, and with a bewildered glance at me, begins to describe their plans—Big Sur and Monterey, then San Francisco for a few days before going up to the wine country and further north.

Hayes, charming asshole that he is, begins to offer suggestions for all the stops along the way, and I suppose I should be grateful—John is no longer leaving, apparently, and Hayes has managed to keep Sam and I in neutral waters. But I’m annoyed all the same. How would he like it if I showed up while he was out with Angela or Savannah or Nicole and took over?

“Be careful camping at Yosemite,” Hayes is saying. “You need the bear bag, something we discovered too late.”

“You camped?” I ask incredulously. I can’t imagine it, unless the camping involved six-hundred thread count sheets and around-the-clock room service.

“It was quite a while ago,” he says quietly. “Nearly a decade by now I guess.”

He went with Ella.

Hayes, once upon a time, was someone who took vacations. Who was willing to take road trips and hang bear bags and sleep on the ground. He was someone willing to trust another human being and commit to her.

I stare at him, seeing in his face what he probably sees in mine when I talk about Matt: this low-level shame that he was fooled, that he was so wrong, that he was destroyed by someone who didn’t deserve him and fooled himself into believing in her.

As annoyed as I am by the way Hayes has inserted himself into my evening, an ache takes hold in my chest. Discovering I was wrong about Matt was hard. But not as hard as having him beginning a family with my dad. How Hayes ever managed to forgive either of them is beyond me.

Our eyes meet, and for one long moment it feels as if it’s only the two of us at this table, at this restaurant. We look away at the same time.

“Tell me about teenage Tali,” says Hayes, jovial once more. “I understand she had a bit of a Thomas Hardy obsession.”

My jaw falls open. “Jonathan has a big fucking mouth, apparently.”

Sam looks at me. “How did I not know this?”

“Yes,” says Hayes, eyes twinkling at my discomfort, “that’s how she and Jonathan bonded as teens, at some writing camp.” He turns to me. “You were quite the catch back then it would seem, writing your Thomas Hardy fan fiction. I’m not sure how you kept the boys away.”

I’m seriously killing Jonathan. It will be sad for his daughter, I know. I’ll find her a better dad. One who can keep secrets.

“It wasn’t fan fiction,” I groan. “It was just an alternate ending to Jude the Obscure. Hardy killed off all the children in the end. It was brutal.”

Sam leans forward. Victorian-era novelists are his jam. “Thomas Hardy books are never happy. Tess of the D’Urbervilles? Return of the Native?”

“Far From the Madding Crowd was happy,” I argue.

“You have a strange notion of happiness. Bathsheba settled.” He kicks my foot under the table, grinning. “Though having spent so many years settling yourself, you might not have picked up on that.”

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:

I want to stay.

I want to stay.

I want to stay.

I kick off my shoes as I enter and text my mother. We haven’t been in contact since that angry phone call before the luncheon, and I just need to know that it made a dent.

Hey Mom, I write. We haven’t spoken in a while and I need to book my flight home.

Which means: I need to know if I’m booking a roundtrip ticket. I need to hear you say you’ve pulled it together.

And I see that’s she read it. But she doesn’t say a fucking word in response.