Chapter 2: The Girl Behind the Clothesline
The next time Jason saw her, she was arguing with a food vendor over the price of boiled yam and egg sauce.
He was standing a few feet away, waiting for his own order — grilled plantain and roasted fish. The vendor, an older woman with a colorful scarf tied around her waist, was clearly outmatched. Hailey's tone was playful, but firm. She had the kind of confidence that made people listen, even when she was joking.
"I paid ₦700 yesterday," she said, placing her hand on her hip. "Now it's ₦900? Did the egg start laying golden yolk overnight?"
The vendor chuckled. "Ah, my daughter, price of things don go up o! Ask Buhari!"
Hailey shook her head and grinned. "You people will soon start blaming him for oxygen."
Jason couldn't help but laugh — quietly, of course. She heard it.
Their eyes met again.
There was something in her gaze — familiar, but distant. As if she saw right through his cool exterior and wasn't intimidated in the slightest.
"Hey, helper boy," she called out, brushing a curl from her face.
Jason raised a brow. "Helper boy?"
"Yes. From the clothesline, remember?"
He smirked. "You mean the day I saved your bedsheets from wind damage?"
"Exactly. I've been meaning to thank you properly."
"Oh?"
She handed him a small bottle of cold Zobo. "Payment for your bravery."
He chuckled as he took it. "You always bribe your rescuers with hibiscus?"
"Only the quiet, mysterious ones."
Jason took a sip. It was sweet, cold, and spiced with just the right kick of ginger. Like her — refreshing with a bit of heat.
They sat together under a tree near the open cafeteria. A few students stared. Hailey was known on campus — outspoken, head of the debate team, and winner of last semester's social impact project. She was admired, sometimes envied.
Jason noticed the stares, but she didn't seem to care.
"So, Jay," she said, leaning back against the tree trunk, "what's your story?"
"Not much to tell," he replied. "Transferred in. Law student. Trying to survive this heat."
She raised a brow. "That's it?"
"For now."
"Hmm. I sense secrets."
"You sense a lot."
"I observe," she corrected, smiling. "You don't talk much, and you're always alone. You dress like someone who doesn't care what anyone thinks. But your shoes are European — probably Italian — so that tells me you're not as broke as you act."
Jason blinked. She had noticed all of that?
"You're not like most guys here," she added.
"And how are most guys here?"
"Too loud. Too proud. Or too hungry."
Jason laughed. "And what about you?"
"I'm none of the above," she said with a wink. "I'm just… surviving."
That word again — surviving. It echoed in his chest.
Jason wanted to ask more, but something told him not to push. Not yet.
They talked for over an hour — about Lagos traffic, the messiness of group projects, and who on campus had the best suya. She was funny, sharp, and honest in a way that disarmed him. There were no pretenses. No masks.
That night, he found himself lying awake, staring at the ceiling fan rotating lazily above him. He hadn't had a conversation like that in years — where no one cared about his surname or bank account.
Hailey was different. And she wasn't trying to be.
In the days that followed, their meetings became more frequent. Sometimes planned. Sometimes accidental. Jason started looking forward to seeing her — a laugh shared between classes, a wave from across the quad, a stolen moment in the library.
But it wasn't just her smile or confidence that drew him in. It was the sadness he saw when she thought no one was watching — a flicker of something deeper, something wounded.
Jason understood that look.
He had worn it too.
And slowly, without even trying, Hailey Drew began pulling him into a life he didn't know he was missing.
One where things weren't always perfect.
But they were real.