25. Blakely
TWENTY-FIVE
Blakely
The last time I was in trouble, I was ten and my nanny caught me eating brown sugar straight from the bag.
I’ve always been a rule follower.
The idea of someone being upset with me makes my insides clench up so tight I forget how to breathe. It’s why I’m so damn good at subtle selling, because I’ve been fine-tuned for years to recognize what other people want and have mastered the art of becoming what they need.
But right now, I feel like a kid who got their hand caught in the cookie jar.
Sitting in Lennox’s car, the silence presses down on my shoulders and dread crawls in the pit of my stomach.
“You know…” I start, desperate to lighten the mood. “If I would have known pissing you off was the way to get you to talk, I would have started doing it years ago.”
He grunts but stays quiet, his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
Well, it was worth a shot.
Huffing, I sit back, trying to meld into the leather seat, hoping it’ll keep me safe from his wrath. Glancing around, I realize for the first time that he drove his personal car, and I rack my brain, trying to remember a time before now when I’ve ever been inside of it.
It’s nice. Old but pristine. It reminds me a lot of Jackson’s, and that makes my heart skip as my eyes flicker to Lennox and I try to see other similarities I may have missed.
I try again: “This is a nice car.”
Still nothing.
Fine, then.
I stop attempting to get him to open up, but the anxiety of having him unhappy with me takes over every thought, and my inability to fix it eats away at my chest. And then I remember what else he said.
Your father went mental.
Funny how it takes my disappearance for my father to remember I was there. The bitterness rolls through my gut, shocking me with its intensity.
My father’s not a bad man. He’s just busy and broken, and when you’re one of those things, you often bury yourself in the other to try and numb the pain.
I would know.
A second still is a second wasted.
My stomach growls, reminding me that even though Jackson brought food for us, we never got around to eating. Which, if I’m honest, is a relief. My gut was in knots wondering what would be buried in the wicker, whether I’d have to come home and adjust with exercise or take the time to explain why I couldn’t eat what he was offering. But I know that if I don’t eat soon, the urge to binge will be that much harder to control.
We drive through the security gates of my house, and when Lennox pulls into the garage, I notice my dad’s Porsche is here. Which means he’s home.
A rare occurrence.
Lennox follows my line of vision to where it’s stuck on the fire engine–red sports car and he sighs. “I’m sure he’s here to talk to you.” He runs a hand through his dark hair before placing it back on the steering wheel. “Just…don’t be stupid again, okay? Don’t be so damn reckless. If you want some privacy, let me know. I don’t want to treat you like a kid, but you have to just work with me here, Blakely.”
My eyes drop to my lap and I squeeze my fingers tight, focusing on the bite of my nails digging into my skin. I don’t regret my time with Jackson, but I do regret causing Lennox problems. I never meant to, not really anyway.
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again,” I whisper.
I realize in the grand scheme of things what I did was stupid, but there’s this thing growing inside of me that’s wild and untamed. Something I’ve never felt before, and the more I try to tamp it down and stunt its growth, the faster it spreads, making me sabotage things, upsetting the system that I helped put in place.
It’s making me realize that maybe all of the things I’ve been working toward aren’t the things that will make me happy, that will make me whole. How could they be when I’m so willing to give them up for a single moment in Jackson’s presence?
And if it makes my dad come home, well…
As I get out of the car and watch Lennox disappear around the side of the house, I tell myself that I won’t be so childish again.
Stepping inside, my stomach tenses and flips with nerves, unsure of what type of conversation I should expect to have with my father. I haven’t seen him since he stopped by Donahue Motors last week, and I doubt he’s stepped foot in this house until tonight. Or if he has, I haven’t seen him.
Walking to the kitchen, I make a snack, my eyes darting around the room and into the hallway with every addition to my plate, straining my ears to hear footsteps.
There’s nothing but silence.
Sitting down at the table, I spread peanut butter on a rice cake, taking small bites, trying to prolong the moment, hoping my dad will come to find me. That he is actually here for me and it isn’t just a coincidence that the first night he’s home in forever is the night I left without a security detail.
But thirty minutes later, there’s still not a sound.
I head back to my room, taking the long way, stopping in front of the double oak doors that lead to his home office. Disappointment drops like a lead weight in my chest as I hear his muffled voice and smell the faint scent of cigars. I knock anyway, the metal door handle cold against my palm as I crack it open and peek inside.
He’s standing behind his desk, a snuffed-out cigar in the ashtray to his right, tumbler of whiskey to his left, his suit jacket off and shirt slightly rumpled as he stares down at a pile of papers. “Stan, that’s fine, but I won’t have them producing shit when we’re sinking thirty million into it.”
His eyes glance up at me and widen. He puts a hand to his chest, blowing out a breath and shaking his head like he’s relieved to see me home in one piece.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth as I slouch against the doorframe. Hope swells inside of me that he’ll hang up the phone to talk. His eyes soften and he holds up a finger, gesturing to the couch on the far wall, like he expects me to wait. Reality crashes back in, reminding me that I always come second to his career.
Smiling softly, I shake my head no and give a half-hearted wave as I head to my room.
I don’t want to be his afterthought.
Slipping out of my clothes and into my silk robe, I head straight to my en suite bath so I can start my nighttime routine. Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata, third movement plays softly through the speakers on the wall, the way it does every night.
Three pumps of cleanser on the center of my Clarisonic, thirty seconds for each side. Then I drop my robe and step on the scale, closing my eyes and slowly counting to twenty-five. Preparing myself.
Like I always do.
Because even though I was successful in my attempt at being spontaneous, even though I didn’t have a panic attack from stepping outside of my comfort zone—it’s the end of the night, and I’m still alone.
And it’s the routines that keep me sane.