Daydream (Maple Hills, #3)(18)
She holds up her hand in protest. “No, thank you. I’m a little sick.”
Now that she’s mentioned it, her skin is a little paler than the last time I saw her during the day and there’s clearly makeup under her eyes trying to cover dark bags. “What’s wrong?”
“I went to a party last night and I’m not that experienced when it comes to drinking, so I feel like I’ve been hit by a car.”
“I know, I saw you. If you spend more time with Aurora that might happen. She nearly reversed into me yesterday. Have you taken Advil?”
“You saw me?” she says, her voice missing its normal airy tone.
“Yeah,” I say, wiping a cookie crumb from the corner of my mouth. “You were asking Mason Wright for his number. I don’t recommend you call him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a dickhead.”
She snorts as she laughs abruptly. Cute. “I don’t know why I keep snorting in front of you, sorry. The girls I was with already deleted his number. I didn’t realize you saw that.”
“You looked like you were having fun with your friends, so I didn’t want to approach you. I didn’t know if you’d remember me and I didn’t want to ruin your night by bothering you.”
“Of course I’d remember you,” she says softly. “You can always approach me at a party. It would’ve been nice to see a familiar face, last night was… a lot of new faces.”
“Have you taken medicine, Halle?”
She shakes her head, so I swing my legs off my bed and head to my bathroom to grab the box of stuff I keep for emergencies. It’s mainly full of skin care items, socks, hair ties, etc., but I do have painkillers and things in here, too. She watches as I dig around for the Advil I keep handy for hangovers.
I’ve never known a woman to look so out of place in my bedroom. She seems nervous for some reason and looks like she’s thinking far too hard. Sometimes I struggle with conversations because human beings, especially the women in my life, naturally want to fill silences with something. I watch Anastasia and Aurora do it all the time; it’s like they’ve appointed themselves as guardians of the conversation flow and natural silences are counterproductive to their work. I don’t think Lola’s had a quiet moment in her life, but lately it seems to be because of arguments she has with Robbie. I don’t think they know I know they’re fighting a lot, but my room is directly above his.
I love the silence, but judging by the look on her face, Halle does not. “Is this your girlfriend’s stuff?”
“Someone stayed the night once and the next day got really sick. I didn’t have anything to look after her with and I felt really bad. Since then, I’ve kept stuff in my bathroom just in case,” I explain. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“I wasn’t sure, because I saw you with someone last night and…” Her voice trails off. “Yeah. Anyway.”
“Anastasia. My friend’s girlfriend.” I can’t help but smirk. “Were you jealous?”
My question finally adds a little color to her white skin as her cheeks flush pink. “No, of course not! I just… God, I am so hungover.”
“Of course not,” I repeat, holding out the Advil to her.
“This is a pretty cool thing to do,” she says, shaking two pills onto her palm. She digs into her bag and pulls out a water bottle, throwing back the pills quickly. “Thank you.”
The silence returns. Leaning forward, she swipes a book from my nightstand. It’s the same one I bought last week at the store. The same one I’ve hardly touched. “How’s your leadership reading list going?”
“I read two chapters and gave up. It’s about his whole life, which I guess is fair for an autobiography, but who has that much to say about their family?”
“Not a family guy?” she says, flipping the book over to read the back. “Sorry, that’s so personal! Ignore me, I didn’t think.”
“It’s fine. I love my family. My moms are the best people I’ve ever met, but I could cover it in half a chapter. Max.”
She laughs, and it’s exactly like I thought it would be. Light, pretty, musical. Everything about her is soft. “I have to stop myself from writing super long chapters all the time. So unfortunately, I can relate to”—she flips the book over—“four-time Stanley Cup winner Harold Oscar. I’m sure what he has to say is far more interesting, though.”
“You’re an author?”
“I’m trying to be, but there’s something not clicking right now. I think I’m still trying to find my style or something. There’s a competition I want to enter but I can’t decide what to write about. I’m, I don’t know, seriously lacking in inspiration I guess. Weirdly, a song came on at the party last night that clearly wasn’t supposed to be part of the playlist and I thought about a plot, but I don’t know if it’ll go anywhere. All my other ideas and drafts don’t feel good enough, so maybe something new is a better idea.”
“I get that. Sometimes I feel like that about a painting if it’s a new subject or technique I’m trying. Stuff we create is personal. You’re probably overthinking it.”
She smiles and rubs her fingers against her temple. “You’re probably right. But anyway, you’re an artist? That’s so cool, I didn’t know that.” She looks around my bare room. “Where’s your work?”