This one reads, “What if no one ever loves me?”
I sigh, reaching for my drink and taking a big gulp. Then I text him back, “That’s absurd, Jackson. You just haven’t met the right girl yet, that’s all.”
“I thought I had,” he responds.
I try not to feel guilty, but it’s hard.
I remind myself it’s no one’s fault if two people are poorly matched. It’s better we acknowledged it and let each other go so both of us would have a better shot at finding happiness elsewhere.
Besides, if the way he treated me was the level of attentiveness he would devote to “the one,” then I feel a little sorry for anyone who is meant for him.
Another text comes through. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
I’m less sure about how to answer this one. I text back, “You don’t have to be alone. Meet up with some friends, go out.”
“I’m already out. I need to see you. Please, you owe me this much.”
He almost had me until that last part. I make a face at my phone, instantly turned off.
I don’t owe him shit.
We dated and then we stopped because it wasn’t a good fit. The end.
I owe him.
He’s got some fucking nerve.
To put a swift end to this interaction, I shoot him one last text. “I can’t meet you tonight. I’m at Charity’s bachelorette party. And I don’t owe you anything, Jackson. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but it didn’t, and that’s no one’s fault. I’m not interested in rekindling anything, ever. I hope you find someone that fits you better than I did and that you’ll both be very happy together. Good night.”
To avoid the temptation of further engaging with him, I open the flap of my pink leather purse and slide my phone inside.
There.
No more Jackson.
This is Charity’s night.
___
As the night wears on, I drink until I am a little past tipsy.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Charity, even though I doubt she cares. She’s busy flirting with the cute bartender.
I stumble and giggle a bit as I get off the stool and steady myself. After blinking a few times, I make my way through the crowd to the cramped restroom.
While I’m peeing, I get the bright idea to dig out my phone and see if I have any missed notifications.
There are several from Jackson. The longer I ignored him, the angrier he got until he finally stopped texting me. He started again, though, about ten minutes ago.
Since I’m a bit drunk, I finally answer this one. “Omg what?”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Out with Charity, I told you.”
“I need your help, Hallie. I got into some trouble.”
Sobering just a bit, I try harder to focus on the screen. I squint, then close one eye and type back, “What kind of trouble?”
“I need you to meet me. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. I’ll pay you back tomorrow, but I’m in big trouble. Please come, I’m fucked if you don’t.”
“What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I’m out with my boss and some of his friends.”
That’s not an answer. Sighing, I tuck the phone back in my bag so I can get out of the tiny bathroom stall. As I’m standing at the sink washing my hands, I hear my phone vibrating more insistently than it would for a text message.
Someone’s calling me?
I grab a paper towel and quickly dry my hands, then I dig my phone back out.
The number flashing across the screen is Jackson’s, so I expect to hear his voice when I pick up the phone.
It’s not Jackson.
“Hello, Hallie.”
The deep, unfamiliar voice of the man on the other end gives me pause.
I respond uncertainly, “Who is this?”
“I’m sending a car for you,” he says, not answering my question. “Where are you?”
My heart sinks. I’m not even sure why, but there’s such authority in the man’s tone, it doesn’t even cross my mind that I could simply tell him to fuck off, that I’m not leaving my friend’s bachelorette party for reasons still entirely unknown to me.
Instead, I stumble out of the bathroom, trying to pull myself together as I make my way outside to see where I am.
This is our third bar of the night; I have no idea where we are.
“Is everything okay?” I ask since this man called me from Jackson’s phone. “Is Jackson all right?”
“For the moment,” the man says evasively.
My heart jumps to my throat at the implication that he might not be for much longer. “Did Jackson… get into trouble? Are you his friend, or…?”
Or what? Do I really think some bad guy who put him in peril would want to chat with me on the phone?
“We’ll discuss that when you get here,” he tells me, his firm, decisive tone brooking no arguments.
“I’m not sure what I can do to help,” I say, growing more anxious as I near the door. In the texts Jackson sent before this man called, it seemed like he needed to borrow money, but I don’t understand why. Jackson has significantly more money than I have. The only thing I can even rationalize is that for some reason he can’t access his own funds right now, but if he’s out with friends, why can’t one of them help him?