Chapter 21
Blaze dragged herself through the first half of her Monday night show.
When she left the stage for her break, she waved to Sydney and her friends but didn’t stop at their table.
Her medication sapped her will to interact with anyone.
Seeming to understand, Marissa didn’t linger to chat before taking Mercy home.
At a table by herself, Blaze mindlessly scrolled her phone.
“I owe you a story.”
She looked up from her screen into a set of blue eyes that were fast becoming familiar. Her fatigue-heavy body suddenly felt lighter. “Since when are you back to attending on Mondays?”
“Since I had a debt to pay.”
When he hadn’t texted her Saturday or sought her out at church Sunday morning, she expected him to renege.
Yet here he was.
Satisfaction and anticipation unfurled in her chest. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.” She motioned at the stage.
“Don’t let me stop you.” He pulled out a chair at the table and dropped onto it. “We can talk after.”
If she stayed late again instead of going straight home to relieve Marissa, her friend would grill her for information. Already, she kept putting air quotes around the word friends when referring to Blaze and Anson.
He rested his forearms on the table and dipped his head to catch her eye. “That work for you?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”
Anson’s brow furrowed, but Philip passed and pointed at the stage. Time to get back to work. She tucked her phone into her pocket as Anson studied her. He didn’t understand the power of his full attention to crumble her defenses or he wouldn’t keep turning that weapon on her. Would he?
“See you after.” She escaped to the stage.
Except the platform didn’t shelter her from him.
Dozens of others filled the room, but he was the only person she saw.
The only one she cared to impress. Questions about him swirled in her brain, distracting her from her own performance.
When she finally replaced the mic, she wondered if she’d put on a good show or mumbled her way through it.
“Good work tonight, everyone.” Philip lifted the strap of his bass over his head. “See you all Thursday at lunch.”
The Signalmen had been performing together so long, they hardly needed the lunchtime rehearsals anymore. Hopefully, Philip’s mention of it was routine and not a subtle jab at her performance.
She hopped off the stage and headed for Anson.
He stood when she neared. “You’re not a beggar, Blaze. Choose.”
A giddy exhale escaped. “What am I choosing?”
Sydney and her friends skirted their table on their way out. Blaze’s stomach clenched, but Sydney flashed her a soft smile.
Anson’s focus stayed on Blaze. “When and where you want the conversation to happen.”
She swallowed. Sydney was a living, breathing example that a relationship with Anson could go off track.
That there were right answers and wrong answers, some that divided and some that connected.
She desperately wanted to connect—wanted his stories, his attention, his affection. “What are my options?”
He shook his head. “I decline to influence your decision in that manner.” Humor played at the corners of his mouth—that perfect mouth.
She passed her palms over the hips of her jeans. “I feel like a genie’s granting me three wishes.”
“Just one. And I’m no genie.”
But he could make her wishes come true. She clenched her teeth to keep that one inside. “Well, I’m curious, so I’d rather not wait. We both know I have a hard enough time focusing without a juicy question distracting me.”
“The prescription still isn’t helping?”
She shook her head. “Unless you call turning me into a zombie helpful.”
He winced. “I wasn’t thinking about how tired you might be when I came here.”
“Are you about to offer an option?”
He shut his mouth and mimed zipping his lips.
“I feel this way no matter the time of day, and it could be weeks before I get better, so for the foreseeable future, it’s zombie or nothing.”
“Then I’ll take zombie.” After a beat, a grin spread his lips.
“What?”
“Yet another way movies have steered me wrong. They led me to believe zombies were ugly, badly dressed, brain-eating monsters. You’re as far from that as it gets.”
Not exactly a straightforward compliment, yet she chuckled. “You could meet me at my house.” The offer was out before she weighed the consequences. “Mercy will be there—sleeping—so we won’t be entirely alone, if that’s a concern for anyone.”
“Your house it is.” He gestured for her to lead the way.
His headlights hung in her rearview mirror across town to the split-level home she inherited from Mom. Blaze parked in the single-car garage and took the moment alone to consider what she was doing, inviting a man into her home after ten o’clock at night.
But this wasn’t just any man. This was Anson. If he’d gotten the wrong idea about her intentions, he would’ve shot down any suggestion of meeting here.
Still, this was Anson. Her crush on him was as overwhelming as the river he’d pulled her out of, and she hadn’t straightened up the house. She probably couldn’t ask him to wait outside while she put things away.
She climbed from the car and met him in the driveway, then led him to the side door closest to the garage. It would have opened into the mud room, if it hadn’t hit something.
“Hang on,” Marissa said.
The two seeing each other was yet another inevitability she’d overlooked. Blaze glanced at Anson and prayed Marissa wouldn’t pull out her air quotes.
A couple of clunks later, the door swung open, and Marissa appeared in the gap, zipping her coat. Her line of sight landed beyond Blaze, and her eyes widened.
Blaze bustled in. “Everything go okay with Mercy tonight?”
“Yup. Is everything okay with you?” She swung her attention to Blaze.
She steered Marissa toward the exit. “See you Thursday.”
“Okay, friend.” She snickered and stepped past Anson, who remained on the step outside.
Blaze motioned him in, then shut the door firmly.
“Friend?” His voice, rich with humor, filled the small space as she hung up her things.
“Don’t worry about her.” Cheeks stinging, she stepped into the living room.
How would their home look to Anson? Mom drank most of her money, so the house hadn’t been paid off when Blaze inherited the estate, such as it was.
Using her own resources, she hired carpet cleaners, purchased area rugs, and bought new used furniture online.
The two chairs and couch differed in shades and textures, but aside from the clutter, everything was clean.
She scooped the junk mail, Mercy’s backpack, and a throw off one end of the couch and motioned for Anson to sit. “Want something to drink?”
“I’m fine.” His step forward halted, eyes trained below the coffee table. “Is that a rabbit?”
She leaned to spot the creamy brown fluff ball. “That’s Cinnamon Bun, a.k.a. BunBun. He’s Mercy’s.”
Anson squatted and stretched his fingers toward BunBun’s twitching nose.
After a few beats, the bunny shot across the room and down the stairs.
A few seconds later, a distinct thud sounded.
Hopefully Anson didn’t know enough about bunnies to know that had been a thump to alert everyone in earshot of danger.
“Should I be offended?” He shifted over to the couch.
“It’s a compliment he stayed as long as he did. Let me go check on him and Mercy.”
She padded down the stairs. By the light of the hall, she spotted BunBun in his hutch.
Mercy didn’t stir in her bed. Blaze eased the bedroom door shut.
BunBun would feel safer that way, and it lowered the risk of Mercy overhearing them.
Whatever Anson’s story entailed, Blaze’s chatty little sister could not be trusted to guard his privacy.
She hesitated with her hand still on the knob. Why had she asked for this? The invitation to her home made their impending conversation too intimate. It was no longer a casual meet-up with a friend following a show. But it was too late to back out now.
She retraced her steps upstairs and lowered herself to the corner of the couch, leaving a good three feet between herself and Anson.
If only they had a cat or dog, another distraction might’ve wandered through the room.
But who was she kidding? A pet cheetah wouldn’t overshadow her monumental awkwardness.
Her voice came out high. “You have a brother?”
Logic, Anson’s former guide, told him to get out of there without answering. But his heart longed for the exhilaration of knowing and being known. Besides, he was determined to be a man of his word.
He angled toward her, drawing one of his knees up onto the cushions and resting an arm along the couch’s back. But getting comfortable was a lost cause. His heartbeat rocked his ribcage. “My brother’s name was Guriel.”
“Your parents have a thing for unusual names, don’t they?” She pulled her legs up onto the cushion and nestled into the corner. Then, she stiffened. “Wait. Was?”
He nodded.
“Oh.” Lips parted, she leaned her elbows on her knees, shifting close enough that he could touch her shoulder if he straightened his fingers. “I’m sorry, Anson.” Sincerity rang in her tone, as clear as any note she’d ever sung.
He rubbed his thumb against the couch cushion. “Carter reminds me a lot of him. That’s one reason I’ve been trying so hard to reach him.”
“How are they alike?”
“Gury was a popular athlete too.” A chuckle rose. “He also had a pesky little brother who looked up to him more than he knew.”
She smiled gently. “You’re Dylan in this story?”
“Yes and no. Unlike Dylan, I’ve always been pretty serious and dedicated to the rules.
But Gury told me once that I could be good or I could be cool.
After that, being cool was my compass in all decisions related to him.
I didn’t tattle when he pulled pranks or came in after curfew. Sometimes, I covered for him.