Until Then

24. Hayley

TWENTY-FOUR

Hayley

Noah is all over the internet. Adaline has sent me two different angles of the moment my boyfriend struck Shane in the jaw.

Justin and Milton drove us through the night. Nearly nineteen hours in the truck and my body aches, but my mind won’t stop reeling. It took at least five hours to get a message from Rees. Once their first show ended in New York, I’m certain he was filled into the uproar online involving his brother.

I don’t know what’s going on. Everyone has a different opinion, but one thing is obvious to me—Shane put hands on Noah first.

The worst piece of everything is his phone is still off. No messages. No calls. Noah seems to have shut himself away from the world.

For a moment I thought there was a hint of him through a post on his social media pages, but in the end it was a statement written by a woman named Kim, some assistant to his manager or something.

A simple statement, vague and professional:

The incident earlier today is regrettable. A full investigation will be conducted, but until then we ask for privacy for Noah and his family. He would like to apologize to anyone he disappointed by his actions, and does not condone violence.

It doesn’t sound like Noah.

I blow out a rough breath and watch the buildings fly past as we weave toward the shore.

My phone won’t stop going off.

Carter: Still no luck?

Me: No. His phone’s off. I’m on the way to his place now.

Carter: Good. Keep me updated. Hayley, Noah would’ve only done that to defend someone. Since you said that jerk is your dad, I’m guessing it was something about you.

Me: Are you trying to talk me into staying with him? Because trust me, that’s not an issue.

Carter: Good.

Briar: Tyrell is on the phone with the studios. We told them what we can assume about the situation, girl.

Me: He’s not going to lose his place in the show, right?

Tears burn in my eyes. Shane Holston is not a nobody in L.A. He’s a big somebody, and he’s a man who doesn’t like to be challenged. He’ll come for Noah, and if he loses his career over this . . .

I can’t go there.

I need to speak with him, hear his side.

Briar: Ty’s the showrunner. He’s going to do all he can to stand against anyone who tries to boot Noah. We’ve got his back, Haze.

Mom: Anything yet?

Me: No. I hate Shane, Mom. I hate him.

Mom: I’m sorry, sweetie. I don’t even know what to say.

Me: I should’ve told Noah. This is on me. He went there and I’m sure he was totally blindsided.

Mom: Tell him we’ve got him, sweetie. No matter what.

It’s too much and I let a single tear fall. An army of people keep asking about Noah Hayden. They don’t know him well—at least my family—but instead of seeing a guy with a temper like so many others, what they saw was my boyfriend, taking on a father who abandoned me, dismissed me, and resented me.

When my phone goes off again, it’s a call. My pulse races when I press the speaker to my ear. “Rees. Anything?”

“No.” Noah’s brother has a raspy, raw voice. Common after a show, Vienna told me when we saw them live. He’s severely asthmatic and needs to take care not to overdo it or he could land in the ER. Now, he sounds hoarse and frantic. “Are you back in California yet? If I need to, I’ll call my dad to get there. It’s been almost a full day, and?—”

“I’m on my way to his condo now, maybe five minutes away. I’ll just knock until he answers if I have to.”

Rees lets out a sigh. “His code is four, five, three, three. Call me when you find him. He . . . he shouldn’t be alone.”

“I won’t leave him alone.”

“No,” Rees says, then pauses for a breath. “He’s going to kill me. Hayley, Noah can get . . . scary down sometimes. No one really knows except me and his therapist, all right? I’m trying to get out on the soonest flight I can.”

Rees is leaving his show to fly across the country because his brother won’t answer the phone?

There’s a sick weight that settles low in my belly. “When you say scary . . . what do you mean?”

He hesitates. “He just really shouldn’t be alone. Text or call me when you get in. Please. I’m losing it here.”

“I will, I promise.” My voice cracks. I hang up the phone and clutch it to my chest, willing the truck to move faster.

I should’ve told him the truth.

I should’ve called him the morning after we met.

I should’ve sent the I love you text I wanted to last night.

When his building slides into view, I grip the driver’s seat. “Drop me off at the curb.”

Justin maneuvers the truck and trailer against the edge of the walk.

“Hayley.” Uncle Milton leans through the window. “You let him know, after what he did, well, he’s always going to be welcome with us. We know Shane, we know how he runs his mouth. If he’s throwing punches, I take it that guy in there really loves my niece.”

I return a watery smile, then beeline it into the lower floor. The building is secure and requires either an invitation from the resident to take the elevator to their floor, or a code typed in the bottom.

My hands shake as I type in the code. The elevator moves like a hinge rusted over, and when the doors finally part, I nearly trip over my feet the way I scramble out of the car.

Noah’s door is locked, but there’s a coded keypad.

Once more, I input the code and wait for the click of the lock.

Inside, lights are off, shades are drawn. Everything is dark. I shrug out of my dusty shoes and jacket. Still clad in worn jeans and a long sleeve tattered tee, I probably smell like truck seats and burgers, but I hardly care. The deeper I creep into his condo, the more lights I flick on.

“Noah?” I call out, terrified I won’t get a response.

In the kitchen, the overhead light reveals a couple takeout containers open and hardly touched. There’s toppled bottles—four, at least—of whiskey and beer. His cabinets are opened, a few dirty dishes are in the sink.

I peek around the corner to the office area. Empty. Same with the living room save for scattered pillows, a crack in his TV, a broken remote, and his cell phone. It’s powered down and discarded.

“Noah?” His name breaks in the back of my throat as I make my way toward the main bedroom.

My heart skips in my chest. Noah is sprawled over the center of his bed, unmoving. One hand has scabbed, reddened knuckles. Bare from the waist up, his head is turned away from me, and in the dark I can’t make out if his chest is moving.

“Noah.” New tears blur his figure. I press a palm to the spot between his shoulders. His skin is warm, his body twitches. I blow out a breath until I see a pill bottle on the ground, white specks scattered around it. I drop to my knees in front of the bed in a frenzy and shake his shoulders. “Noah. Wake up. Noah, please wake up.”

He stirs, lifts his head. His hair stands on end, and his face is coated in scruff. Noah is disheveled, but breathing.

I let out a choked sob.

He blinks through the darkness and focuses on my face. “Wildfire?”

I don’t wait, in truth, I can’t. My arms fling around his neck, and I squeeze his head against me. A shudder rocks my shoulders.

Noah’s large palm runs gently down my back. “Hey. Don’t cry.”

“You . . . you . . .” I hiccup and tighten my hold. “You didn’t answer and you weren’t moving. What are these pills!”

Noah eases out of my chokehold slowly and glances down. “Oh. I wasn’t sure if I needed to take them, but I drank too much. Didn’t dare mix it.”

I blink. “You didn’t take any?”

“Sorry.” He groans and reaches down to pick up the bottle. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” With that, Noah pulls away and flops back onto his pillows, back turned toward me. “You don’t need to stay,” he mumbles into the pillow. “You don’t need to deal with this.”

Him. He doesn’t want me to deal with him. The darker pieces we talked about—these are Noah’s.

I glance at the pill bottle he left unattended. My chin trembles. They’re a type of antidepressant.

If the man thinks I’m leaving him alone to suffer in his thoughts, he’s going to have a rude awakening. I take time to send a text to Rees, letting him know I found him, he’s all right, a little drunk, but I’ll stay with him.

The response is instant. A text of thanks, but still with the assurance he’s flying out tonight.

Relief is heady. There is a bond between those two, and I’ll be glad for Rees’s support. Until then, Noah’s going to get me.

I send quick texts to his friends and my mom to assure them all he’s with me now, then I turn off my phone and leave it on the floor. With care, I slip onto his bed on the opposite side, rolling onto my shoulder to face him.

The motion of the mattress causes Noah to crack one eye. “Hayley.”

“Noah.” I smile softly and let a hand fall to his cheek.

“You shouldn’t be dealing with this.”

“Yes, I should.” My thumb runs along his jaw.

His brow furrows. His voice is rough. “Not very glamorous, am I?”

I scoot closer, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. Noah doesn’t fight it and nestles his face against my neck. He smells like alcohol. He’s too warm. I only hold him tighter.

“I’ll take the not so glamorous pieces, Pretty Boy.”

Noah’s strong arm drapes over my waist and he holds me against him—legs, arms, all threaded with mine—and his shoulders shake. More than once he breathes heavy; it trembles. I feel the salty heat of tears drip onto my chest.

I don’t move.

I never will.

It doesn’t take long before his breathing deepens and evens out. His grip loosens. I lift my head. Noah’s face is at peace, less haunted. I run a thumb over the remaining tension between his brows and kiss him there, then return to our tangled position, my cheek resting on the top of his head.

Over an hour later, Noah stirs. He groans and rubs his head.

“Hi,” I whisper.

Both colors of his eyes are lined in red and fatigue when he rolls his head to look at me. Noah curses and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I thought I dreamed you were here.”

“Nope.” I kick my legs over the edge of the bed.

“Hayley, go home.” He’s firm, but there’s still a touch of agony in his tone. Something desperate. As though most of him doesn’t want me to see the harder pieces, but he doesn’t want me to go, either.

“I don’t think so.” I go to the window of his room and lift the shades. There’s a fading sun over the ocean and it casts away the shadows of his room.

Noah winces against the slivers of light. “What are you doing?”

With care, I prop one knee on the corner of his bed. “I know you probably want to stay in the dark and in bed, but we need to get up. I’ve got a shower ready for you, and we’ll pick up a little, then I’m kidnapping you.”

Noah flattens over onto his stomach again, and tucks a pillow under his body. “I’m not good company right now, Hayley.”

I hate how everything sounds flat, it’s missing the brightness that is Noah Hayden. He’s not even calling me his Wildfire.

“Well, if I only took you when you were good company, then I’d be a pretty rotten girlfriend.”

Noah’s lips curl into a brief smile, there and gone.

“I’ll shower,” he grumbles after a long pause. “But only because I can smell myself. You don’t need to wait around for me.”

I stand in the doorway of his large bathroom, towel in hand, and watch as he slides from the bed to his feet. “Keep trying to kick me out, Pretty Boy. It won’t work. You’re stuck with me, deal with it.”

Noah takes the towel from my hand, mouth tight. “You probably want to talk about?—”

“No.” I press two fingers to his lips. “I don’t want to talk right now. I want to see you standing a little straighter first, maybe get something in your stomach other than liquor. There’s always time to talk.”

Before he can shy away from me again, I rise on my toes and peck his lips. Noah winces, but I don’t think it’s from disgust. The way he cups the back of my head and holds my brow to his, it doesn’t take much to guess Noah needs touch, needs someone present, more than he wants to admit.

While he showers, I throw out some of the scattered trash throughout the condo, then dig through his fridge, looking for something to make. He has a good array of veggies. I settle on a simple omelet, and fail to figure out how to work his fancy coffee maker.

Water’s probably best anyway.

Noah emerges, still shirtless, and I’m not complaining. He runs a towel over his damp hair, and squints against the lights in the kitchen.

He studies the plate of food, gripping the back of the chair tightly. “I’m embarrassed you had to see me like this.”

The words cut a new scar in my heart. I round the counter and trap his face between my hands. “I’m not. Hey, look at me.” I wait until Noah lifts his gaze again. “I want every part of you.”

He swallows and covers one of my hands with his own. “I get stuck in . . . dark thoughts sometimes. It crushes me and I can hardly move.”

I wrap my arms around him, not saying anything. Sometimes words do nothing against severe depressive thoughts. Sometimes it means more to know someone else is simply there.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” I whisper. “I’d be honored to help you find the sunlight again if the thoughts get too dark.”

Noah’s shoulders slump. His arms hold my waist. For a long moment we merely stand there, holding each other. When he finally clears his throat and pulls away, I laugh awkwardly and use my thumb to wipe away a stray tear.

He takes a few bites of the omelet, thanks me, and says I’ll need to finish for him.

It’s progress from straight whiskey.

I turn on some upbeat songs and gently nudge Noah around the kitchen, cleaning together, until he smiles. When I hip bump him near the sink to the beat of one song, he even laughs and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

There’s so much to say. I want to hear his experiences, his struggles; I want to know what happened downtown.

And I need to tell him my fears, my insecurities; I need to tell him about my dad.