Puck The Halls | Jack Hughes

TWENTY TWO

I'M SO TENSE THE NIGHT BEFORE THIS WEDDING, overthinking and just general self-sabotage running through my mind. I've avoided Jack for an entire week, walking out of rooms when he walks in, dodging his calls, ignoring his texts. tonight being no different.

It wasn't that Jack has done anything wrong—because he hadn't—yet. I was so terrified of what might happen that I hadn't slowed down to think another what I was single handedly doing, which was planting a wedge between us that was inevitably ruining it all.

Like I said, Jack hasn't done anything wrong, yet, but he also hasn't done anything to make things right. He hasn't asked me out, hadn't tried to get me alone, to talk things through, and once he realised I was actively ignoring him, he basically just gave up all together.

So now, here I am, Friday night, trying to build up the courage to attend a wedding where I'll have to pretend to be Jack's girlfriend for an entire night, and I was shitting myself.

Sure, we were always pretty good at being close to each other, and sure, one time in middle school Jack's other friend Alex thought we were dating, but that was then and this is now and with no signs from the brunette that he wanted me in his life, I felt like I was swimming in open waters without a life line. Like I was one more wave from drowning.

I hug my arms around my chest, unsure why I'd agreed to come out tonight. It was shit weather, raining so hard that I could barely see in front of me, my clothes were damp, despite my best efforts of keeping under the awnings and staying dry, and my hair was sticking to my face in a way that was definitely not sexy. I'd agreed to come out with America because she wanted a girls night, because she wanted to get away from Luke before she also attended the wedding—as his real girlfriend. Because she wanted some fun. But I didn't want fun.

I wanted Jack.

I wanted him so badly that it left this undeniable ache deep within my chest, so much that I could feel it in my bones, and I felt like I couldn't escape the feeling. Not when I was in a dimly lit bar with America, packed to the point I was shoulder to shoulder with a heap of strangers, not when a boy who was blonde and tall and muscular was trying to flirt with me, and not now as I stood in line for another club, America chatting to a group of girls by my side, happily chattering away about the latest Kardashians gossip, or something.

I try to ignore them, but turning away from the group of girls is worse, because there's the blonde guy from the previous bar behind me, his group of equally as blonde friends in tow.

Was he following me? No, he couldn't be. It had to be a coincidence, at least, that's how he makes it sound when he tries to spark up another conversation with me, calling me hottie, which sounds tacky. I have to pinch myself when I think up the words Jack would never call me hottie.

I'm about to call it a night, to get the hell out of the city, leave America to her new friends who seemed to like her, which was nice, because she deserved more girl friends. I'm seconds away from leaving, the blonde boy beside me talking my ear off, when I see something walk past me that makes my heart drop to my butt.

No, not something—someone. Jack Hughes.

He's with a group of friends I don't recognise, sporting a basic white t-shirt, some denim jeans with tiny rips in various places and a pair of white sneakers that are worn from being worn so often. His hair is a mess, his eyes are wild and bright and he's talking animatedly with a boy who's just as tall as him.

He doesn't notice me, and I'm momentarily glad, but then America decides to open her mouth beside me, and ruins my chances of going unnoticed.

"Oh, hey!" She shouts, earning the attention of the entire group of boys. "Jack!"