Hallie “The time that you were stranded, I was there before you landed. He was a no show, I made sure you got home”
and that time you were stranded, i was there before you landed. he was a no show, i made sure you got home
Standing in the hallway, right next to his locker which she only knows the location of because of that chem project they had to do together her sophomore year, she realises that she doesn’t really have a choice. Fuck.
“Hey Bingham, can I borrow your phone?”
No she doesn’t have a choice at all. God, why is this her life?
And he’s leaning against his locker, wearing a West Ham Centurion lacrosse hoodie. She bets if she looks down at his feet he’ll have boat shoes on. So fucking predictable. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s smirking down at her. He’s not even that tall, definitely one of those guys who says he’s five eleven while really only being five nine, but she’s so short that she still has to tilt her head back just a little to make eye contact with him.
“Why?” He sounds like he’s already enjoying this. Maybe this is payback, payback for making out with him at a party-- his party-- and then leaving five minutes later. Maybe this is all happening because she ignored his text, and then his other text, and then finally his third text.
“To make a call.”
He blinks, plays with the strings of the hoodie. He’s good at lacrosse too, which somehow makes it worse. “Don’t you have your own phone, Pressman?” he asks, and it’s mocking, how he says it. Yeah, she probably should’ve texted him back. Maybe that was a little fucked up of her. Just a little. Karma’s a bitch.
“It’s dead,” she says sharply, and he lets out this laugh, something bright, a little light. Something that makes her think that if her phone wasn’t dead right now, the second she got home-- or at least a respectable distance away from him-- she’d text him back. Maybe.
“Who do you need to call?”
Allie sighs. “Just let me use your phone, Bingham.”
“Answer the question, Pressman,” he scoffs. Really, what did she do to deserve to be this short. It’s not fair. Just, like, two more inches, max, and it’d be perfect. Because it’s not fair that he gets to look down at her like that, like-- soft, or something. And that reminds her of that night, not even a week ago, when he’d looked at her like that, right next to his pool, their drinks only half gone. And it wasn’t bad, the kiss, really it wasn’t. It was just--
Nope, this isn’t worth it. So what if it’s storming outside. Thunder, lightning-- she’ll survive. And it’s only a mile, maybe a mile and half home. And she needed to take a shower tonight anyway. And so what if she forgot her coat at home. So fucking what.
God, she hates her life.
“My mom. I need a ride home.”
Harry lets out a soft snort. He’s still leaning against his locker. “What about Cassandra?”
“Off in New Haven for the weekend.”
“And Will?”
She rolls her eyes. “That ass forgot about me here. Whole reason I’m stuck at the school at five thirty in the first place. Had a school paper meeting. He was supposed to drive me home but I guess he was too busy with something else.” Will is going to pay for this, by the way. She cannot believe he’s doing this to her. For the second time. Three times and it’s over for him. She might have to key his car or something. Would that be fucked up?
He makes a face, starting down the hall slowly. She moves to follow him. “Bet he’s off with Kelly.”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t surprise me either.”
He pauses. Lightning flashes outside the window. “You know, I could just give you a ride.”
This doesn’t sound like a good idea, but-- yep, there’s more thunder. “I mean… you could.”
He stares over at her. They’re only a few steps from the door. “Do you want a ride, Pressman?” he asks slowly.
She can hear the rain outside. When she stares out the window, she swears she can even see his stupid Maserati. She thought she’d go crazy having to listen to him brag about it during chem. And to be one of those girls riding shotgun-- her literal worst nightmare. Well, maybe not worst. Top ten? Doesn’t matter. What she means is that it’s not a dream of hers to be one of those girls.
But-- he’s staring down at her, something almost soft in his eyes. And that smirk of his is gone, faded around the edges, almost a smile now, maybe a smile now.
“Yeah, Harry,” she finally says. “That’d be great.”
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