Daydream: A Novel (The Maple Hills Series Book 3)

“FOUND ANYTHING?”

I look up from my tablet screen and give Cami an unenthusiastic thumbs-down. “Sadly, they don’t seem to stock happy, healthy kids or to live long enough to see my children get married online. Maybe a fruit basket?”

“Fruit basket is good. It’ll help with the long-life thing,” Cami says, taking the seat beside me in the break room. She leans over to look at the options on the fifth department store “gifts for her” section I’ve scoured since my brother texted our sibling group chat asking what we were getting Mom for her birthday next week. “Could you maybe promise to take her to a spa when you go home for Thanksgiving?”

I decide to avoid explaining how, in a misguided attempt to negotiate with my ex-boyfriend, I committed to not going home for the holidays this year. “That’s a great idea, but I’m kind of in charge of making sure my siblings have something to give her, too.”

“I thought your brother was older than you,” she says, and I can’t help but sigh in Eldest Daughter.

“He is, but, like my stepdad, he’s incompetent. Which means if I don’t arrange a gift, Mom won’t be getting a gift on her birthday. It’s totally fine. I’m used to being the family manager.”

I know that Cami is the youngest sibling, so she probably has no idea what I mean when I call myself the family manager. Ironically, it’s a title Grayson gave me when we were younger to fully signify his less-than-enthusiastic contributions to any and all family responsibilities.

Cami locks my screen and slides the device away from me slowly. “Y’know what will help you decide… alcohol. I make all my best decisions drunk.”

I haven’t decided if I like drinking yet. I like being invited to things and I like the confidence I get when I’m buzzed, but I despise being hungover. It makes me anxious and tearful and a little oversensitive, but I’m not sure if those invites will stop if I’m not as fun.

“Weren’t you drinking when you decided to home dye your hair?”

Cami’s previously blond hair is now a deep auburn shade, but only after we spent hours in the hair salon, while fighting my first hangover I should add, getting it fixed. “Okay, so maybe my execution was bad, but try and tell me that red is not my color. Four different people have told me I look like Jessica Rabbit. Do you know what it’s doing to my ego? If only I had her titties. I’d be even more unbearable.”

“You don’t want the back pain, trust me.” I instinctively push my shoulders back a little to fix my posture and the space between my shoulder blades crunches. “And you do look like Jessica Rabbit. You should buy the Halloween costume now.”

During our trip to the salon, I learned that Cami had a situationship with West, the guy whose job I got. She thinks it’s silly to be upset since they weren’t even a couple and she kind of hated him anyway, but she is and she’s dealing with it in the only way she says she knows how. Partying as much as possible.

Cami is two years older than me, but she changed majors and didn’t have enough classes to graduate with her own year group. All her friends, and she clarified she definitely wasn’t calling West a friend, moved away for grad school or job opportunities. She said our circumstances are different, but not that dissimilar, and that’s why it’s so easy for us to be friends.

Seeing her so cut up over West made me feel bad accepting any form of sympathy from her about Will. I immediately felt like I was deceiving her, so I tried to clarify that, apart from the occasional blip, I’m fine being single.

She said she was going to pretend I hadn’t said it because it makes her feel less like a lonely loser to have a friend experiencing the same kind of heartache. She laughed, clarifying she was kidding, and told me that if the blips become less bliplike and more dye-my-hair-red-like, she’d be there for me.

Box dye in hand.

I don’t know whether it was the hangover or the general emotions that come with seeing your life change in such a short space of time, but in that moment—literally just a few hours of my entire life—I felt sad for past Halle who didn’t have this.

“You’re right, and I love my little pancakes anyway,” she says as she pats her chest affectionately. “I should wear something that shows them off when we go to a party later. Don’t you agree?”

Part of me wants to say no, I’m staying home to finally start working on my entry to the writing competition. That tonight the planning and the mood boarding and the mind changing finally becomes a work in progress.

But a bigger, louder, and more persuasive part of me is going to say let’s go, because it doesn’t know how to say to no to people, and it’s arguing that isn’t this what I’ve always wanted? My own friends who invite me to things because of me, not because of a man? Isn’t this what I’m supposed to be doing post-Will? Putting myself first and also having fun? How am I going to decide if I like partying if I don’t try it out properly?

I fold my arms across my chest and sit back in my chair in a fake display of defiance, but in reality, I feel a little giddy, because among all the unknowns, I want to learn about myself. “Which party?”

Cami claps her hands excitedly, and staff I can’t remember the names of yet at the next table look up from their phones. “Oh, you’re going to love it. Robbie’s parties are the best.”

“Who’s Robbie?”

THE HOCKEY HOUSE HAS AN entirely different atmosphere at night compared to when I was here for book club.

Even though Henry invited me before Cami’s intervention, I still feel a little weird about being here. I haven’t seen him once, which isn’t surprising, since from the moment we walked in here several drinks ago, the place has been overflowing with people. What is surprising is how much I’ve been looking out for him.

A mixture of liquor and soda bottles have taken over the kitchen island, and every other surface in the large living room is covered in red cups and beer bottles. Music is blasting from every corner of the space, making it hard for me to hear my own thoughts, never mind the guy everyone seems to hate trying to talk to me while we dance.

I think under normal circumstances I’d have backed away from Mason slowly and found an excuse to run away, but these aren’t normal circumstances, because I am heavily under the influence of whatever is in the very large punch bowl.

Punch Bowl Halle isn’t worried that she can’t dance or talk to men, never mind the fact that this one might ruin her life. Punch Bowl Halle is having fun because that’s what she’s supposed to do at college parties. She also opted to let Mason press his very large body against hers and put his hands on her waist instead of answering his question about why he hadn’t received a text.

I wish Cami was here to save me, but she went outside to call her roommate seconds before Mason found me. Apparently Sober Halle and Punch Bowl Halle have one very clear similarity: they’re both cowards.

“You look really hot,” he yells. His mouth lingers near my ear, his breath warming the sensitive spot on my neck. These are the experiences I’ve read about in romance books. The hot bad boy showing interest in the—let’s face it—inexperienced, sheltered virgin. We’re a cliché, and drunk me finds it funny, but I suspect sober me would be embarrassed as hell.

The worst part is as his hands tighten on my hips, I’ve been waiting for my body to react in some way. My skin to prickle, heart to speed up, something to indicate that my lack of desire was to do with Will. That I’m not entirely sexually dead in the face of a good-looking man. Because that’s how this cliché goes, right? Immediate and unmistakable sexual prowess, but alas, nothing.

I know that I’m still young, and I know that my worth is not associated with what happens between my legs, but I just want to understand myself.

I want to want someone, and it’s beginning to make me a little frustrated.

“Thanks,” I say back, finally responding to Mason’s compliment. “Uh, so do you.”

I can feel my cheeks heating as I hear what I said in my head, and that honestly wasn’t the kind of bodily reaction I was looking for. It sounded flustered and ungenuine. Like when someone wishes you happy birthday and you respond with, “You, too.” Immediately followed by cursing yourself for saying something so silly.

I reluctantly lean backward to assess how embarrassed I should be, and I’m surprised to find he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me.

“Do you want to find somewhere quieter?” he shouts. “More private?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

I don’t need to turn around to check who just spoke on my behalf, because even with the loud drum from the speakers, I recognize his deep voice. My heart rate picks up. Looking up, I see Mason’s face has turned sour.

“Didn’t realize you’d started bodyguarding, Turner,” he snaps. “Surprised you have the time, Captain.”

“C’mon, Halle,” Henry says, placing both of his hands on my shoulders and guiding me backward, slipping out of a now irritated Mason’s grasp. “Have the night you deserve, Wright.”

I’m basically a puppet. I put up zero resistance as Henry takes my hand in his, tucking me close to him as he navigates us through the crowd toward the back of the house. I really would be easy to kidnap is the recurring thought running through my head as we approach the den.

Henry still hasn’t said anything, and as we head toward a beer pong table my survival instincts finally kick in. “Wait!” I say a little more enthusiastically than is necessary, grinding to a halt. “What the hell was that?”

He turns to face me, the same neutral expression he normally wears painting his face. “I was saving you from your terrible taste in men.”

Ouch. It’s like a sobering slap to the face. “That felt personal.”

“I already told you Mason Wright is a douche bag,” he says calmly. “If you want a rebound, he isn’t the place to go.”

Sober Halle would drop it immediately, too embarrassed at her dance partner faux pas to ask more questions. Punch Bowl Halle doesn’t have the same reservations. “Do you always interfere in the activities of your party guests?”

“What happened to always approaching you at parties?” Henry’s smirking, and I feel like I’m missing something until I remember he’s using my own words against me. “I interfere in the activities of my friends, if needed. If you want to hook up with someone, there are better options than him,” he says, and Punch Bowl Halle loses the small amount of drunk defiance she had. “I know him. He went to my high school. He’s angry and irresponsible and not good enough for you.”

“I wasn’t trying to hook up with him. He didn’t try anything,” I explain, like somehow I need to justify myself. “Sorry.”

“You’re beautiful, Halle. Of course he was trying something. You don’t need to apologize.”

My mouth opens to immediately offer something more but closes when his words register. Beautiful. I push it to the back of my brain to mull over tomorrow when he isn’t watching my every reaction.

“I just wanted to get drunk and dance with a guy at a party. Have the experience or whatever. It’s silly.”

“Nothing you say is silly. You’re starting to look sad, and I think I’ve caused it when I didn’t mean to. Can we start again?”

I nod, grateful for the chance to start over. “Hi.”

He smiles. “Hi. I’m happy you’re here.”

“I’m happy you invited me.”

“It’s my turn to apologize to you,” he says, moving to my right to walk beside me toward where his friends are now waiting. “I’m about to make you play beer pong against Aurora, and she’s really annoying and competitive. And she’s going to spend the rest of the night telling you how much she hates Mason, too, because she’s the one who spotted you.”

I feel a little like I’m walking into the lion’s den as we reach the table, and I would really benefit from more punch right now. Henry picks up the ball and bounces it against the table once, catching it in his palm and holding it out to me. Tucking my concerning lack of coordination in the back of my mind, I scoop the ball from his hand. “I’ve spent the last two years hearing about how much Aurora hates poetry. This will be easy.”

More of Henry’s friends appear from the garden, including Aurora, who immediately beelines for me and traps me in a tight hug. “I’m so happy you’re hereeeee. Are you with me?” she asks, looking between me and Henry.

“She’s mine,” he says. “Find your own teammate.”

Before I have a chance to speak for myself, I’m beaten to it by one of Henry’s friends walking through the doors dragging a chair behind him. “There was a minor incident,” he says. Mattie, Kris, or Bobby, he’s called. From height and build to ethnicity and hair color, they all look totally different, as well as having accents clearly from different states. But when I first met them at book club, they introduced themselves almost at the same time and now I can’t remember who is who.

“I can see that,” Henry drawls as we look at the crushed camping chair on the ground.

“We were trying to play musical chairs and the indestructible chair was apparently destructible when jumped on. My bad,” Mattie, Kris, or Bobby says. “Hi, Halle!”

It takes a second to realize he’s talking directly to me, and now everyone is looking at me. Henry is crouching on the floor, looking to see if the chair is salvageable, but stands up quickly when he also hears my name. “Hi—” Oh my God, what’s his name? “—there.”

“You can’t remember my name. I’m hurt. After we enjoyed that book together,” he says, tutting dramatically. “Hen, you clearly don’t talk about me enough.”

That book we read together is a very creative way of saying the book he googled before book club started. As much as I love a trip to Inglewild, if he read it before my impromptu book club meeting in this very house and wasn’t just trying to impress the members, I’ll give him my next paycheck.

“I never talk about you, Kris.” Henry shrugs in the nonchalant way he does. “It’s only important that she remembers my name.”

My God.

Concentrate, Halle. Six-foot, dark-haired white guy with a sort of hybrid accent that I can’t place. Big shoulders and back. Huge, in fact. Kris. Kris, Kris, Kris. Only two more to remember. Uh, plus all his other friends who also still seem to be looking at me.

“Do you hear yourself?” Aurora asks Henry.

“Usually. I can only drown one of us out at a time and I always pick you. Are we playing?”

Aurora bursts out laughing and gives him the finger, but I get what she means. There’s something about what he says and how he delivers it that’s just… hard to pinpoint why it sounds so good.

She bumps him in the arm playfully. “I see you’ve been taking notes from my dad. Emilia and Poppy will be here in, like, one minute. Can we just wait for them to arrive?”

“Sure.” He turns to me. “Are you good at beer pong?”

Oh boy. “Do you want the truth that will make you feel bad now or a lie that might make you feel good in the short term, but bad when you discover it’s a lie?”

“I always want you to tell me the truth.”

“I know the rules but I’ve never played, so I’m probably terrible.”

“I can fix terrible,” he says with a smile. He guides me forward until my back is to his front and takes my right hand that’s holding the Ping-Pong ball he gave me earlier. He leans in until I can feel his soft breathing tickling my neck, and his hand guides mine up into a throwing position. His voice is low and deep as he speaks just to me. “Does this feel comfortable?”

He smells like expensive aftershave, and his other hand is on my waist to gently move me into the right stance, and I’m having a really hard time concentrating, and… “Halle?”

My cheeks flush when a shiver shoots down my spine. “Yup. Comfortable.”

“It’s all in the wrist. Don’t overthink it,” he says as he guides my hand to throw the ball toward the cups on the other side of the table. I’m essentially a puppet again, for the second time tonight. “Perfect. You’re a natural.”

I’m vaguely aware of Cami returning with Poppy and who I assume is Emilia, but I’m focused on Henry. “Or you’re just a good leader after all.”

“See if you still think that in ten minutes. Because we are not losing to Aurora. I need you to bring your A game, okay?”

Someone starts filling all the cups with alcohol and I’m laughing to myself before I even speak. “Yes, Captain.”