The Boyfriend Effect Page 11

  I sit down at the conference table next to Wolfie and cross one ankle over my knee.

  Act normal.

  Mental images of the other night with Maren sneak their way into my brain. Her creamy skin, her rosy cheeks. Her fingers cupping her breasts while I feasted between her legs like she was my last meal.

  Breathe, Hayes.

  It doesn’t matter how good the sex was. And trust me, what happened between Maren and me? It was fucking incredible. But that doesn’t change one very important fact.

  It was wrong, plain and simple.

  It was one thing when we were just fooling around at the lake house. But it was another thing entirely to do what we did the other night. It was premeditated. The hotel room she’d booked. The condom I’d brought just in case. There’s no going back from that. It’s done. I can’t take it back.

  I release a slow breath as panic threatens to overwhelm me.

  A feeling bubbles up inside me—a feeling so big and wild, I immediately know what it is. But I won’t name it. I can’t. Things between Maren and me are just physical, and they’ll run their course. They have to. And when that happens, I’ll walk away. Just like I always do.

  I can’t change what happened. But I can control what happens going forward.

  Aside from Rosie, I don’t have any family. The only place I feel at home is with the guys. Wolfie. Connor. Caleb. Ever. They’re my family. Which is why I can never fuck over Wolfie.

  He and I go back years. The others I met in college, but Wolfie and I have been best friends since the third fucking grade. And Maren? Maren was the gap-toothed kindergartener with a too-big backpack. God, that thing almost toppled her over. I always promised Wolfie I would help look out for her, help take care of her.

  Not take advantage of a schoolgirl crush and fuck her into next Wednesday the first chance I got.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say as casually as I can.

  Wolfie doesn’t look up and grunts in response.

  I head to the single-stall bathroom and pull out my phone. If this isn’t a sign that what I’m doing is wrong, I don’t know what is.

  Maren’s contact is one of the first that come up, and I start typing out a text message explaining that we can’t do this anymore. That this weekend was a mistake. That I’m sorry.

  But then I remember the look on her face at the lake house when she thought that I was the one who invited Holly. The look on her face that night when she thought I was rejecting her. This is the kind of news that will crush her, especially after what we just did. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t tell her this face-to-face?

  I delete the text and stuff my phone back in my pocket.

  My heart hurts at just the thought of what I know I have to do. But also, for the first time, I know that what I’m doing is right. That ending things with Maren is the only way we can all go back to normal and move forward with clear consciences.

  So, why do I feel so low?

  14

  * * *

  MAREN

  When Scarlett insisted we celebrate the fundraiser’s success with drinks, there was only one restaurant suitable for such an occasion. The Signature Room.

  The restaurant sits on the ninety-fifth floor of the Hancock Building, overlooking downtown Chicago, the glittering lights of the skyline a stark contrast to the black expanse of Lake Michigan at night. The service is top-rated, and the food and cocktails are out of this world, according to all reviews. In Scarlett’s words, it’s fancy as hell.

  A blur of texts ensued, swapping photos of outfit options and landing on logistics. Before long, the plan was finalized. Tonight, Scarlett, Penelope, and I would arrive at eight o’clock in our finest semiformal looks. We’d split the cost of a rideshare service so we could all drink our fill—no designated driver necessary.

  When we step off the elevator, our heels click pleasantly against the hardwood floor. Scarlett wears a loose-fitting black jumpsuit that cinches at the waist, with red pumps and lipstick to match. Penelope is flaunting her beautiful figure in a coral slip dress that falls to the knee, sporting an adorable pair of nude kitten heels. Meanwhile, I’m wearing my favorite out-on-the-town number—a strapless gray dress with strappy black heels.

  The hostess looks up from her clipboard and smiles a warm welcome before directing us to the cocktail bar in the loft above.

  Walking up the winding staircase, I take in the view. The restaurant is even more elegant than the photos online. We find a small table next to the wall of windows, sharing excited giggles. Perusing the cocktail menu, I’m pleasantly surprised by how reasonable the prices are. Scarlett orders a dirty martini with extra olives, Penelope proudly flashes her ID and asks for a vodka soda, and I opt for a glass of white wine. As we sip our drinks, the conversation comes easily.

  “It’s honestly such a waste too.” Penelope sighs. “We were having such good conversations. But I haven’t heard from him in over a week. I can take a hint.”

  She smiles halfheartedly, and my heart aches for her. Her experiences with dating apps are thankfully less colorful than Scarlett’s, but still not great.

  “I hate that shit,” Scarlett grumbles over the rim of her martini glass. “Just be up front, you know? As women, we should be the ones ghosting them. Men don’t take rejection well. I’ll admit, I’ve ghosted a few crazies over the years. But normally, if I’m just not feeling it, I tell him straight up. I don’t understand why men can’t return the courtesy.”

  “Exactly.” Penelope splays her hands wide over the table as she leans forward to whisper, “I know we had a connection. So the least he could have done was respect my feelings and tell me he didn’t want a romantic relationship with me. It sucks, yeah, but at least there’s transparency.”

  “I swear you’re both indestructible,” I say, grateful for an opening to chime in. “I’ve never had any luck with dating apps. One weirdo, and I deleted all my accounts.”

  “I don’t know about indestructible.” Scarlett laughs, stirring the olives in her drink.

  Penelope takes a long swig of her vodka soda before she says, “Yeah, speaking for myself, I’m not indestructible, just lonely.”

  “Girl, you’ve got us. Single women are the pioneers of the future,” Scarlett says, raising her glass.

  Penelope giggles, and I watch their glasses touch with a soft clink, uncertain if I should participate or not.

  Am I single right now? Or are Hayes and I a thing? The question sparks a familiar tingle in my core.

  Before I know it, both of them are staring at me. One of Scarlett’s eyebrows is angled sharply in skepticism, while Penelope looks on with innocent interest.

  “Unless some bitch here isn’t single anymore . . .”

  “Maren, are you seeing someone?”

  My mouth goes dry, so I sip my wine and collect my thoughts. Before I can respond—what can I even say?—Scarlett gasps.

  “Oh my God. Please tell me it’s not Hayes.”

  I freeze, and it feels like my blood is rushing backward. “Um, no. Not Hayes.” I scoff, staring into my wineglass, hating that I have to lie.

  When Scarlett sighs in relief, I’m a little disgusted with myself.

  “Oh, thank God. I was gonna say, Wolfie would kill him. He’d kill both of you.”

  Penelope laughs nervously while I frantically search for the waiter. My glass is nearly empty, and I’m tempted to just ask him to leave me the whole bottle.

  “Sorry, girl.” Scarlett chuckles, waving one hand as if to shoo the thought away. “I don’t even know why I thought that. There is no universe in which Hayes would commit, not even to a catch like you. He’s just shortsighted like that, I guess. A lovable jackass, am I right?”

  “Totally.” I choke out the word, my throat tight with emotion. Leave it to Scarlett to shine the glaring light of reality onto my stupid, twisted fantasies.

  Penelope must be very perceptive, because she jumps in, saving me and the moment. “So if it’s not Hayes, t
hen who are you seeing, Maren?”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to keep my quavering voice steady. “Just a guy I met through a work friend. We grabbed coffee a few times, but I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in me because he wouldn’t put his phone down.”

  Wow, who knew I was such a con artist? The lie does the trick, however, because Scarlett slams her drink down with another groan.

  “I hate that shit too. Like, give me the goddamn time of day, dude. Dump his ass, Mare. You deserve someone who’s going to prioritize you and only you.”

  I smile, raising my glass, my fist curled tightly under the table. “To guys who care.”

  “Wherever they may be!” Scarlett says with a snort.

  Our glasses raised in solidarity, we all agree without words to down the rest of our drinks. To my surprise, when the waiter comes back not a minute later and asks if we’d like to order more, it’s Penelope who responds.

  “Another for us, please!” she says, squeezing Scarlett’s hand. When her eyes meet mine, they’re soft and understanding. “And how about the rest of the bottle for my beautiful friend here?”

  Turns out Connor’s little sister is a mind reader.

  The car ride home is full of cheerful conversation. At some point, we’re all snickering loudly about some sexual innuendo Scarlett has made about “the back seat,” and somewhere in my wine-brain, I make a mental note to tip our uncomplaining driver generously.

  Penelope is dropped off at her apartment in Lakeview first, blowing us kisses from the front stoop of her apartment building. I’m next, just north in uptown. When I open the car door to step out into the cool night air, Scarlett hops out with me, asking the driver to wait for “a hot second.”

  She wraps her arms around me tightly. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I will never, ever judge you. You’re my best friend.”

  My eyes are filling with tears before I can fully process anything past the bear hug. “I know, Pinky,” I whisper, using the nickname I called her back in college. “I love you.”

  “I love you too. Now go inside,” she says, spinning me around and smacking my butt.

  I dutifully scurry inside my apartment, stopping to wave from the open door before the car takes her even farther up north. My phone dings once I’m inside the building, notifying me that my rideshare is complete. I tip the driver thirty percent, the wine making me as generous as I am dizzy.

  After stumbling up the stairs, I spend what feels like five minutes trying to unlock the door with the wrong key. When I find the right one, I push the door open triumphantly, dancing my way inside.

  All those years of college parties and underage drinking taught me one crucial rule above all else: Drink your weight in water before going to bed.

  Stripping off my heels and my dress in the front hall, I plod across the floor in my underwear, grateful again that I make just barely enough money to live alone. I fill up my biggest water bottle at the filter and chug half the contents before filling it back up the rest of the way. Drunk I may be, but hungover? No, thank you.

  It’s not until I’m brushing my teeth and staring at my own reflection that I remember Scarlett’s jarring words from earlier this evening. They vibrate through me with every pulse of my electric toothbrush.

  There is no universe in which Hayes would commit, not even to a catch like you.

  How many times did I stand here, envisioning the domestic fantasy of Hayes and me brushing our teeth together before bed? How often have I imagined sharing the same space, the same life with my brother’s best friend?

  Something in my stomach churns violently. I hurriedly spit out my toothpaste, awaiting the inevitable rush of sickness. But nothing comes. It’s just my own stress, wreaking havoc on my body. All over one guy.

  A small voice in my head cries, “He’s not just any guy! Hayes is the only guy who’s made you feel this way.”

  I silence the voice of the romantic little girl inside me that should have died when I first got my heart broken back in college. Staring at myself in the mirror, my mascara running, toothpaste smeared across my cheek, I look completely lost. I’m not sure when I started crying . . . but there’s no stopping it now.

  Somehow, I manage to wash my face, strip off my bra, and slip into an oversized cotton T-shirt. Snuggling under the covers, I imagine a version of myself on the other side of all this drama. It’s the only thing that lulls me to sleep.

  15

  * * *

  HAYES

  Nothing could have prepared me for this moment.

  When I texted Maren to meet me for coffee on Sunday afternoon, I knew what I had to do. I knew why I had to see her.

  But sitting here across from her, watching her pull the sleeves of her sweater over her palms, watching her run her fingers through her long chestnut-brown hair—that’s a whole other story. I don’t know if I can do what I came here to do. She’s too sweet, too innocent. What I’m about to do will break her.

  But that’s exactly why I have to do it. Because the longer this goes on, the harder it will be to end it, and ending it is the right thing for both of us.

  So, why is it so damn hard for me to get the words out?

  I drum my fingers on the table and watch the ripples in my black coffee. Maren smiles weakly on the other side of the wooden slats, her hands wrapped tightly around her latte mug. The smell of warm cinnamon rolls wafts by, fresh out of the oven, and a slow, soulful song plays softly over the speakers. I chose this place for a reason. It’s warm, comforting. Anything to soften the blow.

  “I’ve never been here before,” Maren says, half to herself, her gaze trailing along the mosaic behind me. “It’s nice.”

  “Best-kept secret in the city.” I try to sound casual and cheery, but it comes off forced and canned.

  Maren smiles in response, but this one doesn’t meet her eyes.

  She knows. I can’t keep the thought from bouncing around in my head as panic spreads from the pit of my stomach all the way to my toes. If I don’t do it soon, I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve.

  “So, uh, Maren, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  She flinches at the sound of her name. I’m not the only one who noticed I didn’t call her “dove.” She nods for me to continue, her mouth flattened into a tight line.

  “I wanted to talk to you about what happened between us. It was a mistake. One we can’t repeat.” I say the words quickly, my voice flat and emotionless.

  It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Like I’m the one who sucked it all out.

  Maren stares at her latte, her hands still wrapped tightly around the mug. So tight, her fingertips are starting to turn white. “Okay,” she says without looking up.

  “I’m sorry if—”

  She stands abruptly, her chair legs scraping against the floor. “I have to go.” Before I can stop her, she turns and bolts out the door and makes a left, heading straight for the train.

  I sigh and scrub my hands roughly over my face. Customers around me are murmuring, but I can’t bring myself to care. I feel like I’ve just been socked in the stomach with a baseball bat, but also like I was the one who swung the bat.

  Way to go, Hayes. You’ve hurt Maren.

  Back at my place, I find Rosie sitting at the kitchen table with a book in her hands. She smiles and peers over her reading glasses when she sees me, the corners of her eyes crinkling softly.

  “You look like shit,” she says. We’ve never been the kind of family to mince words with each other.

  I sit down across the table from her and say nothing. She stares at me, her thin eyebrows raised on her wrinkled forehead.

  “I’m really feeling like pizza. Can I take you out for pizza?” I ask.

  Sitting down has made me antsy. I immediately want to stand back up, to get out of this apartment. I need to move, to do something to keep me from thinking about what just happened. I doubt I could eat, but Rosie is always easy company.

  “I
’d love to get a slice from Pauly’s.” The smile on Rosie’s face is casual enough, but I can tell in her eyes that she knows something is up. Lucky for me, she doesn’t ask any further questions.

  We drive in almost complete silence, nothing but the radio playing between us. I can sense Rosie scanning my face, but I ignore it and keep my eyes on the road. I’m not ready to talk to her about what happened. It’s too fresh. Too raw. Hell, I barely know what I’d even say about it.

  When we get to Pauly’s, I’ve just placed our order and gotten Rosie seated at a table when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket.

  I pull it out to find Wolfie’s name on the screen. “Hello?”

  Rosie furrows her brow. I mouth Wolfie’s name to her, and she nods and waves her hand in understanding. “Tell him I said hi,” she whispers.

  I nod and try to focus on what the hell Wolfie wants.

  “Maren’s not answering her phone. I need you to go check on her.”

  Hello to you too, Wolfie. “Why can’t you?” I ask.

  Rosie waves a hand in front of my face. “Is it Maren again?”

  Since when is Rosie so damn perceptive?

  “Because I’m on a date,” Wolfie says gruffly.

  Wolfie? A date? What the fuck is happening right now?

  “Of course we’ll go check on Maren. Don’t you worry, Wolfie,” Rosie says loudly, leaning in to speak into my phone.

  Fuck. I can’t even be mad at Rosie. She has no idea that I just broke Maren’s heart. But that doesn’t change the situation.

  “Thanks, Rosie. And thank you, Hayes. You’re a good friend,” Wolfie says.

  “Wolfie says thank you,” I repeat to my grandma, and she nods and reaches over to pat my knee. But inside, I feel hollow and numb.

  Wolfie shouldn’t be thanking me; he should be beating the ever-loving shit out of me. But instead, I get to keep running around playing knight in shining armor. And this time, I’m taking my grandma with me. Yay. Nothing awkward about that.