Stay With Me (2 page)

I don’t do any of that.

I decide to stay for a little bit longer.

I give him a look. “You’re not really expecting me to introduce myself, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because . . .” I look up at the sky; no answers are there among the few stars that have now broken free of the clouds. “Because it seems silly. We already know each other’s names.”

“Let’s pretend we don’t. Here. I’ll start.” He holds out his right hand to me. “Hi, I’m Caleb Fox.”

I stare at his hand. “This is—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t talk to strangers.”

“Funny.” But then I decide to play along—I tell myself that it’s not to feel Caleb’s hand around mine once again. “Hi, Caleb. I’m Hailey Bloom.”

I like saying his name.

“Hi, Hailey.”

I like it even more when he says mine.

His hand grasps mine in a firm, no-nonsense grip. It should be an ordinary handshake. Something brief, impersonal, and easily forgotten.

This handshake is anything but ordinary, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

His slightly rough skin is still cool against mine, and his thumb sweeps the inside of my wrist. I gasp out loud, and his fingers briefly tighten. The handshake should be over by now.

He doesn’t let go. Neither do I.

“Now we’ve met,” he finally says.

“Yes.” My mouth feels dry, and I lick my lips. “We have.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. I want to fall into him, to let my body press against his, and feel his arms around me. To have his lips touch mine.

Who cares about anything else but
that
right now?

Nothing else matters. Nothing at all.

It would take just one step. One tiny step would bring me closer to him. I’d be within kissing distance.

It would be so easy. So, so easy to stumble toward him, to reach up and loop my arms around his neck. To let his inky black hair slide through my fingers. To lean up on my toes and whisper my mouth over his.

And then I would step away . . .

And nothing would change.

I would just be
the
Hailey Bloom who drank a little too much at a party and kissed some not-so-random stranger. And he would just be Caleb Fox who’d kissed
the
Hailey Bloom. I don’t know him. Caleb could very well be an asshole, too, and decide to sell the story to the tabloids or spread it around campus that I was easy.

Hell, for all I know, I could step away and then the outside lights would be put on, flooding us, and everyone would start cheering Caleb on as he pumped his arm into the air while various people took pics or videos on their cells, and faster than one could say, “tweet,” it would be on every social media site in existence.

Because, yeah, that had already happened to me once. My first kiss had been with a teen heartthrob who I thought really liked me. Silly of me, because all Holden White had been interested in was the media attention that came with being with me. And Holden had kissed and told repeatedly.

What was to say Caleb would be any different?

I can’t take that chance. I’m not going to be humiliated or risk getting hurt.

And I’m not here for kissing anyway. I’m not going to college to hook up with some random guys. Sure, I want to have fun, but I want to make something out of my life, whatever that may be.

But there’s one thing I know for sure: I won’t be kissing Caleb Fox.

“Well, I’d better get going.” I have to give him back his jacket. I shrug free of it and hand it over. “Thanks for that, and for not giving me away earlier.”

That is a point in his favor, but being nice once doesn’t mean anything in my book.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything.” He doesn’t put his jacket back on but merely folds it over the railing. “Do you need a ride home?”

“No,” I say quickly. Being in a car with him—and alone—would be complete madness. I’ve been good at telling myself to stay away and not kiss him as it is. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow morning and lose my chance for normalcy.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“I can walk you out,” he offers.

Again, that would mean we would be alone. Not good.

“No, that’s okay.”

“I don’t think—”

“Caleb.” I hold my hand up. Maybe this whole conversation will get sold to TMZ or some other gossip site, but being polite is not working. “If I wanted your help, I’d ask. But I’m perfectly fine on my own, and I don’t need you—”

“I’m just trying—”

“—or your help. I’ve been on my own for the last year, and I’ve survived. I think I can handle walking from here to the street.”

“Okay. Got it.” He steps away from me and grabs his jacket. “It’s just that if you want to avoid the party, then you’ll want to go out the side gate to your left. It has a tricky catch to it, so I was going to help with that.”

“Oh.” I swallow thickly. “I think I can manage.”

Caleb looks at me for a long moment, then heads toward the patio door. “I’m sure you can.”

He doesn’t look back at me, and I tell myself I’m glad for that.

Really, I am.

Chapter 2

I
ARRIVE BACK AT MY
apartment. I live off-campus in an apartment building that’s part of the college, so all the people who live there are fellow Green College students. That was really important to me when I decided to go here—that I still have the college experience, even if I don’t live in the dorm rooms.

I live on the top floor, where there are fewer apartments and so the floor plans are bigger. Besides mine there are only five other doors. I haven’t met most of my neighbors yet, merely passing and goings as I still get use to going to class—something that I’ve never done before—that, and finding my way around Burlington. While this isn’t Hollywood, Burlington is a big enough city to get lost in if you don’t know quite where you’re going.

The building is located downtown in the heart of the city and is a fifteen minute drive from the main campus. Even though my apartment building is in the city, it’s really quiet, as it’s situated near all these tall trees and Lake Champlain is a few miles down the road.

My apartment is dark inside, and I switch on a light before I get ready for bed. Tomorrow is Saturday, and the novelty of having a whole weekend to myself is still too new to me. Maybe I’ll go grab some coffee or shop in the outdoor mall. Then again, I could just lounge around and get some homework done. I do have a ten-page English paper due on Monday, and I’ve yet to make a dent in it. I never really had to write a lengthy paper before, so I’m not sure exactly how to go about doing it. I have a bad feeling about it.

But when I lie down in my bed and turn off all the lights, I’m not thinking of what I could do this weekend.

I’m thinking of Caleb and worrying that I was rude to him. That if I saw him again, he’d turn the other way. But that would be for the best, right? If he ignored me? Then I wouldn’t go to bed thinking about him, replaying the conversation on that deck in my head on a continuous loop.

Gah! I bury my head in my pillow. Did I really say
those
things to him? Why did I get so defensive? Why couldn’t I have just played it cool—like how I normally would’ve in the past—and just breezed through it? Why, why, why?

And then I torment myself with one what if—one that keeps me tossing and turning for the majority of the night.

What if I’d let him drive me home?

What if? What if? What if?

M
ORNING COMES SOON ENOUGH—AND
it wasn’t a great night of sleep. I’m still on West Coast time, and I’ve always been this weird hybrid between a night owl and morning bird. But afternoons are the worst—I often want to take a nap right at 3 p.m. I often battle that urge with lots and lots and lots of coffee.

I don’t even like coffee. But I need it after last night. Right now, I’m wishing for a caffeine IV that would shoot straight into my veins and jolt me into a state of readiness.

My weird sleeping habits always mystified my mother, too. My heart squeezes painfully as I pull on a tee, hoodie, and yoga pants. It’s probably better if I don’t think about my mother right now or anytime in the future. My mother has always been concerned with one thing: fame. How to get famous, how to keep being famous. She made me do things that I just didn’t want to do.

When I was sixteen and making another music video, and I saw what outfit they wanted me to wear, I balked. It was like Britney Spears 2.0—a much skimpier version of an updated Catholic school girl’s uniform, pretty much bordering on pornographic with the tight plaid skirt that barely covered my butt and the half-shirt that looked more like a bra. I walked off-set and locked myself in the trailer, imagining images of me dressed like this all over the place—being used for guys to jerk off, and then got sick. Because I knew better at that point—at what older men could and would do.

My mother had knocked on the trailer door, and I’d let her in, telling her I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t.

“But, honey,” my mother said, her voice dripping with venom-laced sugar. “You’ve got to. It’ll be an iconic song for you. An iconic video, like
Thriller
.”

I laughed shortly, staring at her in disbelief. “Mother, I’m not Michael Jackson.”

“Hailey.” The venom wasn’t so hidden now, her blue eyes sharp on me. “People are talking.”

“They’re always talking.”

“They’re talking about your weight gain last year. Remember that?” she asks, glancing down at her manicured nails, her brassy blonde hair swinging over a bared shoulder. My mother is beautiful, young, and . . . calculating. “Remember how everyone thought you were pregnant at the time? Because you got a little bigger around your middle?”

I froze, feeling all hot and sweaty, shame pulsing in me. My mouth felt dry, and it was hard to get the words out. “I only put on five pounds.”

“Five pounds is fifty in this world, honey. You know that.” My mother stood up, smoothing her short blue dress over her long legs. “Get in that outfit. Show how flat your stomach is. How toned you are. How you’re the most beautiful young woman in the world. Because if you don’t . . . people will talk, Hailey. And you don’t want that. Or do you?”

I just stared at her, my hands fisted at my sides. There was no choice but one. And even as I said the words, I hated myself. “I’ll do it.”

“I knew you would see it my way.” My mother headed toward the trailer door. “And, don’t forget. Smile. Just smile and flutter those lashes to draw attention to your famous blue eyes. Like the Caribbean ocean, they are.”

Just remembering this makes me break out in a cold sweat, and I gulp down another cup of coffee, just to warm me from the inside out. There are so many regrets I live with—my mother, the choices I made to stay in it as long as I did . . . every other bad call I made. My mother. She will do anything—has done anything—to make me famous—interviews, spilling stories, and using my name to get what she wants for herself.

But I’m not going to think about the past. Not right now. I don’t want my past to ruin my future. I don’t want it to affect me anymore, but it’s so much easier said than done.

Instead I decide to clear my head by walking to the nearby Farmer’s Market. Hopefully the fresh air and exercise will also get my blood pumping and wake me up even more. I’ll get some fresh fruit, maybe some flowers to brighten up my place, and some other staples so I can be hermit-like for the rest of the weekend and get some work done on my English paper.

I lock my door on the way out and stuff my keys and cell in my hoodie’s pockets. I take the stairs down to the main lobby and barrel out the door. The Farmer’s Market is located in the park, which is also right in the city, but about five minutes away from where I live. I tie my hair back in a loose ponytail and pull my hood up—it’s a little cold at seven, and I’m wishing I’d brought along some fingerless gloves.

Opting for a shortcut, I turn right at the streetlight and notice a little café. It has a sign in the shape of a teacup with the name Tea Leaves written in a curly script, and I’m about to pass it when I notice the sign written on the chalkboard out front. There’s freshly baked scones and tea.

I’m definitely getting some of that.

Soon, I have a warm blueberry scone and a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea. I bite into the scone and let the tea cool down as I continue on my way to the market. I timed it so that I would get there just as the market opened, before any major crowds hit. So I’m relatively surprised to see that there are a lot of people milling about the various fruit and vegetable stands. Straight ahead, an older woman is setting up a table full of buttery pastries, pies, and cookies. My mouth waters, but I glance down at the little bit of scone that remains. Yeah, there’s no way I can buy any more treats; I’ll have to stay away so I don’t weaken.

I hesitate at the entrance, looking over at the small crowd.

I don’t know if I should go in or not. I could be recognized, but really, if I want to have a normal life then I need to act normal and not get all hung up on being
the
Hailey Bloom. That Hailey Bloom was manufactured anyway.

With that in my head, I stride forward. Even though it’s colder than I’d expected, the sun is shining bright and the sky is clear. I take off my hoodie and tie it around my waist, then I buy some fresh fruit, veggies, and a big bouquet of bright pink daisies, all without being recognized. I’m starting to think this is going to be
that
easy after all. I almost wish my mother were here so she could see this—that I could blend in and have a normal life.

But then again, if my mother were here, she’d make it known who exactly I was and be demanding the red carpet be rolled out and “no pictures, please,” even as she would call the various paps to tell them my location. Because, in my mother’s book, the only way you stayed famous was by being famous.

I really need to stop thinking about her. She’s not in my life anymore—and for good reason.

And besides, this is a whole new venture of my life. I’m going to do something and be someone other than who I am . . . who I
was
.